The thought that disturbs a nerve is an intrusion. Life's rapid torrent loiters in a pool, and its bubbles all break and are forgotten. Indolence is the mother of philosophy and we "let the world slide." We think, with Rosseau, that "the best book does but little good to the world, and much harm to the author." difficulties of authorship, and Pelham's that "learning is the bane of a poet." with its

We remember Colton's three flattering unction to idleness, The " mossy cell of Peace"

"dreams that move before the half shut-eye, And its gay castles in the clouds that pass,"

is a very Eden, and, of all the flowers of the field, that which has the most meaning is your lily that " toils not, neither does it spin," and of all the herbs of the valley, the

"Yellow lysimacha that gives sweet rest,"

has the most medicinal balm. We are of the school of Epicurus. We no longer think the "judicious voluptuousness of Godwin dangerous. Like the witch of Atlas, we could "pitch our tent upon the plain of the calm Mere" and rise and fall forever to its indolent swell.

And speaking of idleness (we admire Mochingo's talent for digression-" Now thou speakest of immortality, how is thy wife, Andrew") one of our pleasantest ways of indulging that cardinal virtue is by an excursion to Nahant. Establishing ourselves unostentatiously (we hope our lampooning friend will not object to the phrase) upon the windward quarter of the boat, to avoid the vile volatile oils from the machinery-Shelley in one hand, perhaps, or Elia, or quaint Burton(English editions, redolent in Russia, and printed as with types of silver)—with one of these, we say, to refresh the eye and keep the philosophic vein breathing freely, the panorama of the bay passes silently before our eye-island after island, sail after sail, like the conjurations of a magic mirror. And this is all quiet, let us tell you-all in harmony with the Socratic humor-for the reputable steamer Ousatonic (it distresses us daily that it was not spelt with an H) is none of your fifteen-milers-none of your high-pressure cut-waters, driving you through the air, breathless with its unbecoming velocity, and with the fear of the boiler before your eyes-but with a dignified moderation, consistent with a rational doubt of the integrity of a copper kettle and a natural abhorrence of hot water, she glides safely and softly over her half dozen miles an hour, and lands you, cool and good-humored, upon the rocky peninsula, for a consideration too trifling to be mentioned in a well-bred period. And then if the Fates will us an agreeable com

panion, (we wish we had time to describe our beau-ideal) how delightful, as Apple Island is neared with its sweep of green banks and its magnificent elms-every foot of its tiny territory green and beautifulhow delightful, to speculate upon the character of its eccentric occupant, and repeat the thousand stories told of him, and peer about his solitary cottage to catch a glimpse of his erect figure, and draw fanciful portraits of his daughter, who, the world says, for the sixteen years of her sweet life has had only the range of those limited lawns which she may ramble over in an hour-and, as the boat glides by, to watch the fairy isle sleeping, if the bay is calm, with its definite shadow, and looking like a sphere, floating past in the air, covered with luxuriant verdure. It is but a brief twelve miles to Nahant, and the last four stretch out beyond the chain of islands, upon the open sea. To a citybred eye and fancy there is a refreshing novelty, added to the expanding influence of so broad a scene, which has in it a vigorous and delightful stimulus. The mind gets out of its old track. The back ground of the mental picture is changed, and it affects the whole. The illimitable sky and water draw out the imagination to its remotest link and the far apart and shining sails, each covering its little and peculiar world, and sped with the thousand hopes of those for whom its lonely adventurers are tracking the uncertain sea, win on the mind to follow them upon their perilous way and breathe for them the "God speed" of unconscious interest. It is a beautiful and magic sight, to see them gliding past each other on their different courses, impelled by the same invisible wind, now dark with shadow, and now turning full to the light, and specking the horizon, like white birds careering along the edge of its definite line. The sea grows upon you as you see it more. The disappointment felt at first in its extent wears away, as you remember its vast stretch under those blue depths, which your eye cannot search; and the waste of its "untrampled floor," and the different depths, at which the different spoils of the sunk ships have balanced and hung, and the innumerable tribes who range their own various regions of pressure, from the darkest caverns to the thin and lighted chambers at its surface, all come step by step upon the mind, and crowd it with a world of wondering speculation. It is delightful to us to sit with the agreeable companion we spoke of, and with the green waves heaving about us, to indulge in these wayward and unprofitable imaginations. It is a splendid range for a wild-winged thought-that measureless sea! We love to talk of its strange mysteries. We love to go down with one who will not check us with cold obWith such jections, and number and shape out its inhabitants. a fellow-wanderer, we have found palaces that surpass Aladdin's.

and beings to whom the upper and uncondensed water has a suffocating thinness. But these are idle speculations to the world's eye, gentle reader, and we will reserve them for your private ear. We will go some summer afternoon, and talk them over together on the deck of that same deliberate steamer. You have no idea how many things are untold of the deep sea-how many dreams of it an idler man than yourself will weave out of its green depths in his after-dinner musings.

A volume of Shelley's Posthumous Poems lies in the honored niche of our Table. Beautiful as Shelley's poetry is, it has never been republished in this country, and though his name is universal, his productions are comparatively unknown. One of the first steps towards a better acquaintance, is a confession of propensities, and as Shelley is at present a passion with us, with your leave, gentle reader, we will make you partially acquainted. We do not mean to give a criticism just here upon his style. We will do it more at length hereafter; but for the present, we will introduce a fragment or two, with a single remark that Shelley has written as if he had never read poetry. It seems with him the essay of a new and original power-startling even to himself and gathering its material, without guidance, by an intuitive analogy and selection. It is all new, and vivid, and strong. One of the least original of his pieces, but, at the same time, a very beautiful one is the following:

And walked with inward glory crowned-
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.
Others I see, whom these surround-

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ;-
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

"Yet now despair itself is mild,

Even as the winds and waters are ;
I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have born and yet must bear,
Till death-like sleep might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

"Some might lament that I were cold,

As I, when this sweet day is gone,
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,
Insults with this untimely moan;

They might lament-for I am one
Whom men love not,-and yet regret,
Unlike this day, which, when the sun
Shall on its stainless glory set,

Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet."

The Posthumous Poems open with a somewhat long narrative, entitled "Julian and Maddalo." The latter is a maniac who is visited in his confinement by Count Julian, and the author, and is thus described :

"Having said

These words, we called the keeper, and he led
To an apartment opening on the sea.-
There the poor wretch was sitting mournfully
Near a piano, his pale fingers twined

One with the other! and the ooze and wind.
Rushed thro' an open casement, and did sway
His hair, and starred it with the brackish spray;
His head was leaning on a music book,
And he was muttering, and his lean limbs shook;
His lips were pressed against a folded leaf
In hue too beautiful for health, and grief
Smiled in their motions as they lay apart,
As one who wrought from his own fervid heart
The eloquence of passion: soon he raised

His sad meek face, and eyes lustrous and glazed,
And spoke, sometimes as one who wrote and thought
His words might move some heart that heeded not,
If sent to distant lands;-and then as one

Reproaching deeds never to be undone,

With wondering self-compassion ;-then his speech
Was lost in grief, and then his words came each
Unmodulated and expressionless,-

But that from one jarred accent you might guess
It was despair made them so uniform:

And all the while the loud and gusty storm
Hissed thro' the window, and we stood behind,
Stealing the accents from the envious wind,
Unseen."

The Witch of Atlas' is a purely imaginative poem of some seventy stanzas. Some of its descriptions are among the most exquisite things we remember :

"A LOVELY lady garmented in light

From her own beauty-deep her eyes, as are
Two openings of unfathomable night

Seen through a tempest's cloven roof-her hair
Dark-the dim brain whirls dizzy with delight,

Picturing her form; her soft smiles shone afar,
And her low voice was heard like love, and drew
All living things towards this wonder new.

"For she was beautiful: her beauty made

The bright world dim, and everything beside
Seemed like the fleeting image of a shade:
No thought of living spirit could abide,
Which to her looks had ever been betrayed,
On any object in the world so wide,
On any hope within the circling skies,
But on her form, and in her inmost eyes.

"Which, when the lady knew, she took her spindle
And twined three threads of fleecy mist, and three
Long lines of light, such as the dawn may kindle
The clouds, and waves, and mountains with, and she
As many starbeams, ere their lamps could dwindle
In the belated moon, wound skilfully;

And with these threads a subtile veil she wove-
A shadow for the splendor of her love.

"The deep recesses of her odorous dwelling

Were stored with magic treasures-sounds of air
Which had the power all spirits of compelling,
Folded in cells of crystal silence there;

Such as we hear in youth, and think the feeling
Will never die—yet ere we are aware,

The feeling and the sound are fled and gone,
And the regret they leave remains alone.

"And there lay visions swift, and sweet, and quaint,
Each in its thin sheath like a chrysalis ;

Some eager to burst forth, some weak and faint,
With the soft burthen of intensest bliss ;

It is its work to bear to many a saint

Whose heart adores the shrine which holiest is,
Even Love's-and others white, green, grey and black,
And of all shapes-and each was at her beck.

"And odors in a kind of aviary

Of ever blooming Eden-trees she kept,

Clipt in a floating net, a lovesick fairy

Had woven from dew-beams while the moon yet slept;

As bats at the wired windows of a dairy,

They beat their vans; and each was an adept,

When loosed and missioned, making wings of winds,
To stir sweet thoughts or sad in destined minds.