Our excited imaginations realize the thoughts in that wonderful Socratic ode of Wordsworth,

"Our souls have sight of that immortal sea,
Which brought us hither;

Can in a moment travel thither,

And see the children sport upon the shore,

And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore."

As the sun dropped towards the horizon, the clouds, like courtiers in the train of a mighty potentate, gathered themselves around him to receive upon their gorgeous and fleecy volumes the reflection of his setting grandeur. It was a scene surpassing all conception. They had piled themselves before him in such deep masses as to cover the whole landscape in shadow, but as they had risen out of the west, their lower line of surface presented a smooth, continuous, unbroken fringe of purple and silver all around the hemisphere, (an effect often witnessed at sunset,) betwixt which and the horizon beneath it, was left a comparatively narrow strip of sky, perfectly clear, save here and there a small tuft of cloud, flushed through with mingled tints of crimson and gold, and almost lost in the depths of the infinite sea. Into this space the sun was to emerge in parting splendor from the vapors which had intercepted his rays, look forth once more in flashing radiance on the gemmed scene beneath him, and then sink majestically behind the mountains. As he declined towards the lower edge of the fringed veil of cloud, a torrent of light, preceding his appearance to the eye of the spectator, streamed down upon the most distant skirts of the horizon, and for an instant seemed to stand in the sky, condensed into a column, and connecting the line of cloud above with the mountain tops below, like the pillar of fire which shone before Israel by night in the wilderness. Then it expanded all round the circular verge, and for a few moments was reflected to the eye, though in the chastened, yellow gleam of sunset, with a brightness almost too excessive to be beheld. It diffused itself into a misty haze of more sober splendor as it moved gradually farther onward from the distance, and as the sun fell nearer and nearer to the open sky, and commanded a broader and broader prospect over the earth, the flood of light descended lower and more rapidly downward on the vast amphitheatre, gleaming from summit to summit, from terrace to terrace, bathing every object through its wide sweep in the fresh, dewy coloring of sunset, and investing the ice-encrusted scene with a tenfold gorgeousness. The torrent of sunbeams continued to roll down towards the foot of the mountain, and I enjoyed the grandeur of its progress for some moments before it bathed the summit on which I stood. Then the sun looked sublimely over the whole magnificent expanse, and then melted away behind the western verge, imparting a momentary

gleam of the richest sunset splendor to the outline of the distant mountains, but leaving the glories he had thrown upon the earth's surface to be again traversed and eclipsed by the dim evening shadows. I remained to gaze during the short but beautiful reign of the wintry twilight, after which the cold and clear, though as yet moonless night swiftly enveloped all objects in its doubtful obscurity. And then I turned my steps homewards-my mind elevated by the wonderful scene which had come and passed so rapidly before mebut reflecting, as I looked up with comparatively indifferent feelings to the spangled evening sky, on the strange coldness to the beauties of nature which creeps upon our souls as the sensitive feelings of youth sadden and harden into manhood; remembering that there was a time when my heart would dance within me at the simple vision of the deep blue sky, hung in its arch of unadorned sublimity over my head, though now it requires a more various, and I almost suspect, a more artificial and fantastic scene to move me. How do we neglect to lay our souls open to the impressions which they might receive from the grandeur and beauty of the external world!

THE DREAM OF FAME.

A YOUNG, glad creature floated in my dream!
It was the depth of summer and the winds
Fainted beneath the sunlight. Flowers gave out
Their last warm breath of fragrance, then closed up
Their blushing bosoms as they fain would die !
The noon came slowly on, and the sun rode

High in his burning chariot, whilst the earth,

Thirsty and parch'd, seemed languishing and dead!

There was a shaded hollow, by the side

Of a dark gliding river, over which

A willow leant and quiver'd. On the green

Of this secluded cove, a youthful form

Was thrown in graceful negligence. 'Twas one

Who had looked deeper into nature's paths

Than may be well for early intellect;
One whose intense and spiritual thirst
For wisdom and philosophy, had lent
A keener vision to his thoughtful glance
Than dwells with tame and ordinary man.
His features were unripen'd as his years,

But the deep meaning of his thin, red lip,
The calm and dreamy languor of his eye,
And the abstracted manner, all bespoke
The mystery of wind, the godlike gift
Of a high intellect. He lay and mused!
The cool winds crept along his brow and toy'd
With his luxuriant hair; the shadows cast
Their dusky wings around him; Zephyrs fann'd
The tall grass and his temples, and his thoughts
Mellowed and changed and grew more indistinct
Until they took the color of Sleep's world.

And he was wrapt in sleep. A figure rose

Out of the busy crowd and beckon'd him

To wander with her. Suddenly 'twas night

The moon shone out and the bright stars stood forth

Gazing upon the calm and sleeping world!

He thought it was a dream, but could not shake

The stupor from his sense. Elenor,

For so he called the being, seem'd as one

Whom he had known and worshipped for long years!

And so they wander'd on thro' that clear night
Like two bright stars, that liv'd but in the light
The other shed, and faded when a cloud
Shadowed the other's beauty. Thus they pass'd
For hours together rapt in the excess
Of most delirious rapture. Then a cloud
Came o'er the bright moon,-suddenly a moan,
Was heard among the far-off forest trees.
As of a smother'd whirlwind. Elenor
Grew pale and trembled, and her bosom heaved
As she clung wildly to the youthful form
And panted like a dove upon his breast.
Nearer and still more near the whirlwind came.
The stars closed up the lids of their bright eyes,
And ever and anon the thunder's voice
Roared like the knell of time. The hurricane
Roll'd in its angry wrath, and trees and shrubs
Wrench'd from the startled earth were borne aloft
Like the pale leaves of Autumn. Suddenly

A fierce and scathing flash of lightning fell

Upon the brow of beauty! The wind died

And the clouds pass'd from the moon's silver face,

As theyouth press'd a corse to his sick heart!

Then the scene changed. He had gone forth with men. Ambition was his idol, and the praise

Of the false world had madden'd his young soul.

He thirsted for a name-immortal fame

And the vain-glorious pageantry of power

And coveted the might of intellect.

He scann'd the heart's deep mysteries, and went
A wanderer to drear and distant climes-

Trod Asia's burning desert, and beheld
The wonders of Pompeii, and the waste
That crumbled o'er Jerusalem. He bow'd
Before old Pagan altars-trod defiles
Where death stood grinning terribly, and saw
The recreant sons of the first murderer,
And the eternal monument of Lot.

Than he returned a lean and haggard man,
Wasted with toil and desolate at heart.

The beings of his youth! oh where were they?
The glad-eyed creature, his yourg Elenor-

The brother of his soul-his early friend

"Oh where are they?" and echo answered "where!"
Then Fame came to him. On his wither'd brow
She placed her shining garland, and her voice
Rung in his ears a shout of deep applause.
He tore the wreath away-it bow'd him down
And wearied him-he closed his heart and ears
To the deep tones of praise, for sycophants
Bore echoes in their voices, and confused
The hoary headed wanderer's faculties!
And this he said is fame! and turn'd away
To a sequestered village and pour'd out
The remnant of his days in deeds of peace!

Modern reviewing may be defined the art of bringing forward, under patronage of the author we pretend to criticise, our own misty speculations in regard to some favorite or indifferent subject, on which our own minds have hammered a good deal more, perhaps a good deal less, than usual. A talent at writing for reviews may

be defined the faculty of taking occasion, from the appearance of any literary or scientific work, to usher into being a series of stupid reflections, that must inevitably have occurred to every dull man's mind on the slightest perusal of its pages. The business of a modern reviewer is like that of certain insects, who are led by the guidance of instinct to deposit their spawn on the carcass of some nobler animal. It may also be likened to the operations of that species of the feathered tribe y'clept cuckoo, which, either from indolence, or want of ingenuity in itself, most impudently lays its eggs in the nests of its more industrious neighbors.

And yet the motives that actuate a reviewer of the modern school are strong enough to set on fire minds of the most terrific energy. They are principally the two most powerful springs of action that ever exerted an influence over all our miserable world-the love of fame, and the love of money-the one, the source of all pride, envy, jealousy and contention; the other, the root of all evil. To be sure, a reviewer sometimes writes for the purpose of puffing a friend's nonsense into notice; and sometimes with other ostensible views, equally praiseworthy; but self, in some shape or other, is always at the bottom. And then, too, what is still more to be lamented, the crabbed, rancorous wretches often write out of the pure gall of envy and revenge, and would be glad if they could dip the pen in the very heart's blood of their sensitive victims. And, worse yet, they write not unfrequently, even the hoary headed scribblers, in order to indulge their own vanity in displaying the strength and keenness of their satire, the venom and bitterness of their ridicule, and their skill in the use of these terrible weapons ;-regarding the young and trembling author, whose sensibilities they are torturing so rudely, with about as much indifference as the philosopher exhibits in trying the intensity of his galvanic apparatus on the naked nerves in the limb of a dead frog. They handle their pens with as much vain and cool complacency in this malignant work, as the surgeons do their dissecting knives in the midst of the crowded lecture room. This, however, is not so often the case as it used to be, for the public, in our country at least, will not bear it.

A reviewer often writes, too, out of pure fun, and sometimes (it is possible) out of pure patriotism; sometimes, perhaps, he pours forth out of the fulness of a generous indignation; and sometimes, out of his love of literature and the arts. But generally it is fame and money-fame, either in getting the credit of writing a fine article on some other man's work, which he knows nothing about, or in enjoying the praise which he has secretly bestowed upon a work of his own, about which he knows, if possible, still less ;and as to money, of that we shall speak presently.