DEATH OF ROB ROY.

'Whenthis chieftain was on his death-bed, a gentleman whom he had reason to consider as an enemy, came to see him. On being requested to admit him to his bed-side, he said: 'Raise me up, buckle on my arms, then admit him!' The guest was received with cold civility, and in a short time departed. 'Now,' said Rob Roy, 'call in the piper.' The piper came, and he expired with the voice of war pealing around him.'

Withheather pillowing his head,The dying outlaw lay,And plaided clansmen round his bedStood watching in dismay.Wild throes of dissolution shookHis worn and wasted frame,But native lordliness of lookDistemper could not tame.The walls of his rude dwelling-placeWere hung with weapons bright—With branching antlers of the chase,And trophies won in fight.His tall, gaunt hound, of proven worth,Acute of eye and ear,Slept idly on the lighted hearth,Forgetful of the deer.Cold dew—that herald which precedesThe winding-sheet, and wailOf mourning ones—in clammy beads,Stood on his forehead pale.Faint grew the swell of his proud breast,And dim his falcon-eye,But manfully his lip suppressedThe groan of agony.While ran his blood with feebler flow,Strode in a clansman stout,And told the chief, in accents low,'A stranger waits without!'Then syllabled the name—a wordUnwelcome to his ears,Which darkly in his bosom stirredThe hoarded hate of years.'No member of a hostile clan,While heart or pulse can beat,Shall see me,' said the dying man,'In posture of defeat.Array me in the spoils I tookFrom enemies laid low;Clad thus, Macgregor cannot brookThe presence of a foe.''Bring forth the bonnet that I woreWhen blood was on the heather,Though in the mountain wind no moreWill nod its eagle feather:Gird on my sword, of temper tried,Old beam of hope in danger,To deeds of hardihood allied,And then admit the stranger!'Attendants clad the dying manIn garb that well becameThe leader of a martial clan,A warrior of fame;Admitted then his guest, who metReception stern and cold;The Highland Chief could not forgetThe bloody feuds of old.The stranger soon withdrew. 'Now callThe harper in, to cheerMy passing spirit with the strainMost welcome to my ear!'The hoary minstrel brought his lyre,To notes of battle strung,And fingering its chords of fire,In stormy concert, sung:

The walls of his rude dwelling-placeWere hung with weapons bright—With branching antlers of the chase,And trophies won in fight.His tall, gaunt hound, of proven worth,Acute of eye and ear,Slept idly on the lighted hearth,Forgetful of the deer.

Cold dew—that herald which precedesThe winding-sheet, and wailOf mourning ones—in clammy beads,Stood on his forehead pale.Faint grew the swell of his proud breast,And dim his falcon-eye,But manfully his lip suppressedThe groan of agony.

While ran his blood with feebler flow,Strode in a clansman stout,And told the chief, in accents low,'A stranger waits without!'Then syllabled the name—a wordUnwelcome to his ears,Which darkly in his bosom stirredThe hoarded hate of years.

'No member of a hostile clan,While heart or pulse can beat,Shall see me,' said the dying man,'In posture of defeat.Array me in the spoils I tookFrom enemies laid low;Clad thus, Macgregor cannot brookThe presence of a foe.'

'Bring forth the bonnet that I woreWhen blood was on the heather,Though in the mountain wind no moreWill nod its eagle feather:Gird on my sword, of temper tried,Old beam of hope in danger,To deeds of hardihood allied,And then admit the stranger!'

Attendants clad the dying manIn garb that well becameThe leader of a martial clan,A warrior of fame;Admitted then his guest, who metReception stern and cold;The Highland Chief could not forgetThe bloody feuds of old.

The stranger soon withdrew. 'Now callThe harper in, to cheerMy passing spirit with the strainMost welcome to my ear!'The hoary minstrel brought his lyre,To notes of battle strung,And fingering its chords of fire,In stormy concert, sung:

'The plaid round his shoulders our leader hath thrown,And a gathering blast on his bugle hath blown;He calls on the dauntless and ready of handTo gather around him with bonnet and brand;Like hounds scenting out the retreat of the stag,We quit, for the Lowlands, our home on the crag.

II.

'The dirk of our fathers in gore we must dye!Will the falcon forbear, when the quarry is nigh?The Saxon dreams not, in his flowery vale,That our pennon is flung to the welcoming gale;That we come from the mountains to scourge and destroy,And the chieftain we follow is dreaded Rob Roy.

III.

'On the head of Macgregor a price hath been set,With the blood of our clan Lowland sabres are wet;Elated by triumph, red wine freely flows,And loud is the song in the camp of our foes;But to shrieking will change their demoniac joy,When sound our glad pipers the charge of Rob Roy!'Ere died the battle-song away,Rose up the voice of wail,While motionless the chieftain lay,With face like marble pale.No kindly word from him repaidThe harper for his strain;The hushing hand of Death was laidOn heart, and pulse, and brain!

Ere died the battle-song away,Rose up the voice of wail,While motionless the chieftain lay,With face like marble pale.No kindly word from him repaidThe harper for his strain;The hushing hand of Death was laidOn heart, and pulse, and brain!

Avon, May,1837.W. H. C. H.

AN AUTHENTIC FRAGMENT FROM AN UNWRITTEN HISTORY.

'What!How's this! I told you to make one of my bootslargerthan t' other; 'stead o' that, I'm blow'd if you haven't made onesmallerthan t' other! What a hass you must be, to be sure!'The Incensed Cockney.

'What!How's this! I told you to make one of my bootslargerthan t' other; 'stead o' that, I'm blow'd if you haven't made onesmallerthan t' other! What a hass you must be, to be sure!'

The Incensed Cockney.

Thegreat Homer did not think it unworthy his muse to sing of boots; why then should not I write of them?—especially as I have a tale to tell, which, if carefully perused, will, ('though I say it, who ought not to say it, still Idosay it,') tend to the edification of the reader. I have called my story 'A Tale of Tight Boots,' hoping that when he should see that it concerned his understanding, he would understand the necessity of regarding it attentively.

The scene of my story is the goodly city of Boston; the time, May, 1836, 'being bisextile, or leap-year.' Business and pleasure had led me to town—alas! I made it a 'bad business,' and my pleasure ended in pain. I established myself at the Tremont, and began to look around for adventures.

Rap—tap—tap!

'Come in!'

'A note, Sir.'

'Mr. H—— requests the pleasure of Mr.——'s company at dinner to-day, at two o'clock, precisely.'

Mr. H—— was an old and much-loved friend; of course I accepted. I learned that there was to be a large company, and what was of more consequence to me, that Miss L——, whom I had addressed for the last six months, was to be there. No one will think it strange, then, if I devoted more than usual attention to my toilet. Finding that the style of my boots was a littlepassêe, I resolved to treat myself to new ones. The shop of the artizan who kept the 'crack article' was not far off, and thither I betook myself. Having selected a pair which came near thebeau idealof a boot, in my mind's eye, I proceeded to try them on.

'A little too tight on the instep,' said I, after I had fairly succeeded in drawing them on.

''Bout right, Sir,' said the man of boots, rubbing his hand over the place indicated; 'they'll give a little; fashionable cut, Sir; make 'em all so, now; fine foot, Sir, yours, to fit a boot to; high in the instep—hollow here. They look well, Sir.'

The last part of the man's argument, or rathergab, had the desired effect. He had assailed me in a tender point—almost the only one, I believe, in which it was possible for him or any other person to flatter me. My better judgment and understanding were overcome. I kept the boots.

Havingmade my toilet, and put on my future tormentors, I set out for the residence of my friend. The arrival, salutations,announcement of dinner, etc., are matters of course—so I let them pass. In due time, I found myself walking into thesalon de manger, with Miss L—— on my arm. A moment more, and I was seated at the table beside her. I did the duties that fell to me; said to my companion every pretty thing I could think of; sent her plate for some turkey; carved a chicken that stood before me, and offered the wing to the lady opposite; drank wine with my hostess, and procured some tongue for a lady on my left, who had no gentleman to take care of her. By the way, I wish she had eaten her own, considering the use she afterward made of it. In fine, my mind was so completely occupied by the pleasures of my situation, the few good things I said to my companion, and the many she said to me, that I was unconscious of the curse that from the first had been developing itself.

Soon, however, I became aware that something prevented my being perfectly happy. I felt as one who, in the midst of a delightful dream, is assailed by a bed-bug—made conscious, merely, that there is some draw-back to his pleasure—something that prevents his giving himself entirely up to that perfect bliss which seems to beckon him to its embrace. A few moments more, and I was fully aroused. I found the instep of my right foot in a state of open rebellion against the strictures that had been laid upon it, and particularly against the act of close confinement. In truth, there was good reason; for the instep was the seat of intense pain. I drew it under my chair; but no rest for it was there. I thrust it back to its first place; still its anguish was unabated. In spite of myself, I became silent, and a shade passed over my face. The quick eye of my companion detected it, and fearing she had said something that had wounded me, began, with a kindness peculiar to herself, to apply a healing balsam. She had been speaking of an article in a late number of theKnickerbocker, and, in fact, commenting upon it with much severity. The thought seemed to flash on her mind that I was in some way interested—the author, perhaps, or a friend to the author. She passed to commendation. 'There were, notwithstanding, fine traits in the piece; redeeming qualities in spite of its imperfections. There was evidence of much talent—talent not all put forth,' etc. Dear girl! she mistook my disease. It was not my vanity that was wounded. My vanity was wounding me.[1]To gratify it, I had put on the tight boots; and now, like an undisciplined urchin, it had become the tormentor of its too indulgent parent.

At this moment, my Newfoundland dog, which, it seems, had followed my steps, and waited patiently at the door, amusing himself by calculating, from the doctrine of chances, the probability of his being admitted, took advantage of an opening made by the egress of one of the servants, and walked into the room. Remembering that he had not been regularly invited, and a little doubtful as to his reception, he came slowly forward, with his tail rather under thehorizontal, his nose thrust forward to catch the first intimation of my presence, and eyes upturned, glancing from one to another of the company, to see how he was to be received. He made a slight smelling halt at each guest, until he came to my chair. Finding that he had reached the object of his search, he without farther ceremony seated himself on his haunches beside me, wagged his tail back and forward on the carpet, and looked up in my face with an expression of much dignity, mingled with a slight twinkle of self-congratulation, which seemed to say: 'So, then, I have got along in the right time?'

I was so much occupied with my own sufferings, that I could scarcely be civil to the fair creature at my side; it is not surprising, therefore, that I gave little heed to the dumb beast at my feet, however expressively he might invite me with his eyes. Poor Rover! had he known my situation, he would never have 'done the deed' he did. I knew the kindness of his disposition—but the truth must be told. After waiting several minutes, and eliciting no glance from his master, he raised his heavy foot, and placed it impressively on mine. It rested onthevery spot! It was not in human nature to bear this unmoved. I withdrew the distressed member, with a convulsive twitch, which brought my knee in contact with the table, with so much violence, that the attention of the whole company was drawn on me, just in time to see the contents of my wine-glass emptied into my plate, and that of my companion into her lap. Kind girl! She exhibited no emotion, but slightly and unseen by the company, shook off the wine, and continued her conversation, as if nothing unpleasant had taken place.

Overwhelmed with mortification, I found it impossible, with all the efforts I could make, to recover my self-possession. I could only reply in monosyllables to her remarks; and, save when she addressed me, I was silent in spite of myself. She touched on various subjects which had usually interested me, in the hope of withdrawing me from the remembrance of the accident; but finding her efforts vain, she adopted another course, and asked me, in a counterfeited tone of censure, when she was to have the lap-dog I had promised to procure for her several days before. The word 'dog' was all that traversed the passage to my mind, so thickly was that passage crowded with keen remembrances. Thinking of my own Newfoundland, I replied, fiercely: 'He dies to-morrow!' Startled at the unusual tone, my fairest companion cast on me a glance of surprise, almost of fear. A tear shone in her eye, and she was silent.

Atlast the time of leaving the table came—oh, moment to me most welcome! It seemed to me that we had sat an age at the board; but at the last, my corporeal had been forgotten in my mental pain.

If the reader has any bowels of compassion, he is now hoping that my troubles are over; that I shall go quietly home, take off the offending boot, enclose my foot in an easy slipper, and then, in the evening, with an old boot well polished, pay my respects to mymistress—explain all—receive her forgiveness, and be again happy. Would it were so! But let me not anticipate.

Before we sat down to dinner, it had been arranged, that we—that is, my friend, wife, and sister, myself and Miss L——, should go to the theatre in the evening, to hear, or rather see, a celebrated little French actress, whose star was then in the ascendant. I had no time to make new arrangements; for when we rose from the table, it was even then time to set forth. The fresh air and the lively conversation of my friends nearly restored me to myself; so that when we took possession of our box, I was comfortable both in body and mind. But for my foot there was no permanent peace. There was but a temporary truce with pain. I had not been seated ten minutes, before the enemy returned, rëinforced. I soon felt that to endure until the play was over, would be utterly beyond my power. There was but one course to pursue. I silently slipped my foot from the boot, and sitting close to my companion, succeeded—thanks to the ample folds of her cloak!—in securing my white stocking from observation. The acting was superb—my foot was at ease—my companion agreeable—and I quite forgot that I was bootless.

Thelast act was closed, and the curtain fell. My friends immediately left the box. Mr. H—— offered an arm each to his wife and sister, and—you would not expect a lady to wait for her beau!—Miss L—— walked with them, but not without 'a lingering look behind.' The instant they were out of the box, I seized my boot, and attempted to thrust my foot into it; but it had swollen, and the first effort cost me excruciating pain; yet this I did not regard. But all my efforts were vain. I could as easily have thrust an alderman through a key-hole. I seized my pen-knife, and split the offending boot nearly from top to toe. Then planting my foot on the sole, I tied the string of my drawers tightly around the leg, and rushed through the crowd. In my haste, I well-nigh overturned a fat old lady, who was leaning on her son's arm. The old woman cried, 'Oh Lord!' and the youth, in ire, muttered an oath, and raised his cane; but I was two quick for him. I reached the door, amid the screams of the ladies, the deep, though for the most part unspoken, curses of the men, and the cry of 'Seize him!' from the police officers. But my friends and my betrothed, where were they? Lost in the crowd, or shut up in some of the carriages that were pressing around the door? I saw at once that all search was useless. I waited until nearly all had left the house, and then slowly and sadly took my way to my hotel. I went to bed; but the visions of the day were present to my waking thoughts, or haunted my short and troubled slumbers. How often, between sleep and awake, did I long for the boots, and envy the comfortable estate of their free-and-easy wearer, so felicitously described by the author of 'Boots, a Slipshodical Lyric,' in an early number of this Magazine.

——'What sprawling heels!And holes are cut anigh the spreading toes,As if the ponderous feet in that wide spaceHad still been 'cabined, cribbed,' and wanted room,—Or else, that doleful crops of pedal maize,Called by the vulgar corns, had flourished there.I see the wearer plainly. In public hauntsHe of his self deportment takes no heed,And spitteth evermore. His lips are sealedAnd juicy, like wind-beparchéd mouthOf ichthyophagous Kamschatkadale; and oft,With three sheets in the wind, in upper tierMidst mirthful Cyprians, he puts his feetOver the box's front, and leaning back,Guffaws and swears, like privateer at sea,Until the pitlings from beneath, exclaim,'Boots!' 'Trollope!' and he straightway draws them in.'

When I rang in the morning, the waiter brought a note. The address was 'pleasingly familiar' to me. I broke the seal, and read:

'Miss L—— will be excused from her engagement to ride with Mr. D—— to-day. Mr. D—— may spare himself the trouble of calling to inquire the reason.'

And he did!

***'Lepoéte est homme par les sensHomme par la douleur!***L'argile périssable où tant d'âme palpite,Se façonne plus belle, et se brise plus vite;Le nectar est divin, mais le vase est mortel;C'est un Dieu dont le poids doit écraser l'autel;C'est un souffle trop plein du soin ou de l'aurore,Qui fait chanter le vent dans un roseau sonore,Mais, qui brisé de son, le jette au bord de l'eau,Comme un chaume séché battu sous le fléau!'

Lamartine.

Thoudark-eyed, pensive, passionate child of song!Enthusiast! dreamer! worshipper of thingsBy the world's crowd unnoticed, 'mid the throngOf beautiful creations, Nature flingsThe sunlight of existence o'er!The wingsOf the rude tempest are not half so strongAs thy proud hopes—thy wild imaginings:Stop! ere their bold and sacrilegious flightReach a too-dazzling height!Venturing sunward, till the flashing eyeOf reason, grown deliriously bright,Kindle to madness, and to idiocy;And, from excessive lightTo hideous blindness fall, and tenfold night!Stop! melancholy youth!Though bright and sparkling be the tide of song,And many a sunbeam o'er its waters danceMeanderingly along—Though it be heaven to quaff of—yet, in truth,A deadlier venom taints its gay expanse,More deep, more strong,Than to the subtlest poison doth belong!A very demon haunts its fœtid air,Infatuating with its serpent glanceThe wanderer there;And, with a sad but most bewitching smile,Luring the credulous one to its desire:Stirring new feelings, passions, hopes awhile,And burning thoughts, whose mad, unholy fire,With its own strength illumes its own funereal pyre!Stop, if thou'dst live!—or hath life left for theeNo charms, that thou its last terrific sceneShouldst with such passion worship? Can it be,That the world nothing hath thou'dst care to win?No gem, no flower, no loveliness, unseen?No wonder unexplored? no mystery,Still undeveloped to the eagle eyeOf Genius, or of Poësy?Where are the depths of the dark, billowy sea?Its peopling millions—its gigantic chainOf gorgeous, glittering waters—wild as free?Where the big-orbéd sun—the blue-veiled sky?And its magnificent, diamond-glittering mineOf ever-burning stars? Oh! can it be,(Thou fond idolater at every shrineWhere beauty lingers,) can it be that thouHast treasured up earth's glorious things, till nowThou deem'st it uselessness to turn.Some unfamiliar object to discern,And soHer loveliest features unregarded go?Away, vain thought! such phrenzy ne'er were thine!Since, in the humblest, homeliest flower that grows—Thy very life-breath, as it comes and goes—There are a thousand things, whose origin,Whose secret springs, and impulses divine,No human art nor wisdom can disclose!Stop, then, sad youth! for life is notallcare,But, hath its hours of rosy-lipped delight;While the cold grave hath little save despair,The weary, world-worn spirit to invite.Stop! I conjure thee! bid the muse away!Her fatal gifts relinquish or resign;Her haughty mandates heed not nor obey:E'ennowthy brow hath sorrow's pallid sign—Thine eye, though bright, is like the flickering rayOf a 'stray sunbeam, o'er some ruin'd shrine,'Lighting up vestiges almost divine,In sad, yet, dimly-beautiful decay!Thy cheek is sunken, and the fickle playOf the faint smile that curls thy parted lipHath something fearful in it, though so gay!A something treacherously calm, and deep,Such as on sunny waters seems to sleep,When hid beneath some passing shadows gray,The subtle storm-fiend watches for his prey.Stop! ere thine hour of dalliance be over;Ere Health abandon thee, and quench her lightIn the dark stream of death, (the faithless rover!)Ere Hope herself take flightDown to the depths of that dark-flowing river,Whose sombre shores are clothed in endless night;Ere thou be wrested from us—and for ever!Blotted, like some loved planet, from our sight!And, save the tiesThat not e'en Destiny itself can sever,A feeble reminiscence or a nameBe all thou leav'st us of thee 'neath the skies—Or some rude stone, perchance, to greet our eyes,And, with its speechless eloquence proclaim:'Here liesAnother victim to thy love, O Fame!'

The wingsOf the rude tempest are not half so strongAs thy proud hopes—thy wild imaginings:Stop! ere their bold and sacrilegious flightReach a too-dazzling height!Venturing sunward, till the flashing eyeOf reason, grown deliriously bright,Kindle to madness, and to idiocy;And, from excessive lightTo hideous blindness fall, and tenfold night!

Stop! melancholy youth!Though bright and sparkling be the tide of song,And many a sunbeam o'er its waters danceMeanderingly along—Though it be heaven to quaff of—yet, in truth,A deadlier venom taints its gay expanse,More deep, more strong,Than to the subtlest poison doth belong!A very demon haunts its fœtid air,Infatuating with its serpent glanceThe wanderer there;And, with a sad but most bewitching smile,Luring the credulous one to its desire:Stirring new feelings, passions, hopes awhile,And burning thoughts, whose mad, unholy fire,With its own strength illumes its own funereal pyre!

Stop, if thou'dst live!—or hath life left for theeNo charms, that thou its last terrific sceneShouldst with such passion worship? Can it be,That the world nothing hath thou'dst care to win?No gem, no flower, no loveliness, unseen?No wonder unexplored? no mystery,Still undeveloped to the eagle eyeOf Genius, or of Poësy?

Where are the depths of the dark, billowy sea?Its peopling millions—its gigantic chainOf gorgeous, glittering waters—wild as free?Where the big-orbéd sun—the blue-veiled sky?And its magnificent, diamond-glittering mineOf ever-burning stars? Oh! can it be,(Thou fond idolater at every shrineWhere beauty lingers,) can it be that thouHast treasured up earth's glorious things, till nowThou deem'st it uselessness to turn.Some unfamiliar object to discern,And soHer loveliest features unregarded go?

Away, vain thought! such phrenzy ne'er were thine!Since, in the humblest, homeliest flower that grows—Thy very life-breath, as it comes and goes—There are a thousand things, whose origin,Whose secret springs, and impulses divine,No human art nor wisdom can disclose!

Stop, then, sad youth! for life is notallcare,But, hath its hours of rosy-lipped delight;While the cold grave hath little save despair,The weary, world-worn spirit to invite.Stop! I conjure thee! bid the muse away!Her fatal gifts relinquish or resign;Her haughty mandates heed not nor obey:E'ennowthy brow hath sorrow's pallid sign—Thine eye, though bright, is like the flickering rayOf a 'stray sunbeam, o'er some ruin'd shrine,'Lighting up vestiges almost divine,In sad, yet, dimly-beautiful decay!Thy cheek is sunken, and the fickle playOf the faint smile that curls thy parted lipHath something fearful in it, though so gay!A something treacherously calm, and deep,Such as on sunny waters seems to sleep,When hid beneath some passing shadows gray,The subtle storm-fiend watches for his prey.

Stop! ere thine hour of dalliance be over;Ere Health abandon thee, and quench her lightIn the dark stream of death, (the faithless rover!)Ere Hope herself take flightDown to the depths of that dark-flowing river,Whose sombre shores are clothed in endless night;Ere thou be wrested from us—and for ever!Blotted, like some loved planet, from our sight!And, save the tiesThat not e'en Destiny itself can sever,A feeble reminiscence or a nameBe all thou leav'st us of thee 'neath the skies—Or some rude stone, perchance, to greet our eyes,And, with its speechless eloquence proclaim:'Here liesAnother victim to thy love, O Fame!'

Philadelphia, 1837.J. S. D. S.

'A strangequestion!' says one: let such a reader turn to the next article. 'And a pretty foolish one,' mutters a second: let him do likewise.Who would be a scholar?'Sure enough!' whispers one, in whom the question finds an echo, (and we know there are such;) him, and all of like sympathy, we invite to meditate a moment with us on the trials of the scholar.

Let it not be feared that we are about to disparage learning; although it should not be forgotten, that we have the highest authority on our side, when we venture to speak of evil and hardship in connection with that which is pronounced 'a weariness to the flesh;' and the classic muse is with us, when we claim it as a universal fact, that 'no one is satisfied with his lot, but each one sighs for change.' The tired soldier exclaims, 'happy tradesman!' and the tradesman, 'happy soldier!' The bard who vies with Homer, both in antiquity and honor, places the beggar and the poet in the same category; for it is the object of one of his noble hexameters to say, that

'Beggar envies beggar, and bard envies bard.'

Does not our question appear to some to border on profanity? There are those who are wont to feel that Mind and all its achievements are more sacred than the things of sense. And this is in some measure true. But why is not the toil and plodding of the scholar as earthly as any other? We must insist that it is; and we claim that an unfounded presumption in favor of mental effort, as such, be not suffered to face us on the threshold of our argument.

Go with us then—for our appeal shall be to actual examination—to the chamber of the philologist. A cadaverous being dwells there; his sepulchral voice bids us enter, and his sepulchral look—shall we say welcomes us? No! The heart, the social principle, has perished in this atmosphere of dusty lore. You enter. Before a table piled with books, sits thegenius loci. On either side of him stands a chair, loaded with huge volumes, and others stand on end upon the floor around. As you place your hat upon a dust-covered volume which lies in the window, you catch the title, '—— on the Digamma.' As you take your seat, you have in view the worn titles of other venerable tomes; 'Scholia in Homerum,' 'De Metris Choricis,' 'De Dialecto Ionicâ,' 'Tenebræ Lycophrontis,' etc., etc. Shall we record a portion of the conversation? After the usual salutation, and the partial return of the student's mind to present realities, we begin:

'Well, Sir, we find you deeply engaged in study: are you laboring upon your edition of Æschylus?'

'I am; but for two or three days past, I have been more particularly occupied with the investigation of some collateral topics of considerable interest. I have been examining the accentuation of an obsolete form used by this poet, in order to determine whether the accent should be theacuteor thecircumflex. I have read the ancient grammarians on this point, and the invaluable discussion of Blomfield on the accent of this particular word, which occupies four pages in his elaborate commentary.'

'Are not the dramas of Æschylus quite obscure and difficult?'

'They are so regarded, but they are rich in the treasures of the Greek language, and open a wide and inviting field for investigation. I have often been richly repaid for spending a week upon a single sentence.'

'Do you suppose that the text is generally as Æschylus left it?'

'It had become much corrupted and interpolated; but the labors of our great critics have probably nearly restored it to its original purity. Many of the manuscript copies were evidently erroneous. The great German scholars have made many conjectural emendations, of unspeakable value. Indeed, hardly any department of philological criticism has been cultivated with more zeal, and more astonishing results, than that ofconjectural emendation.'

'But do you not suppose that Æschylus would object to some of the improved readings, if he could see them?'

'Oh! you now call to mind a dream which I had last night. If I were a believer in dreams, it would make me quite discouraged; and as it is, my mind has been rather gloomy this morning. I dreamed that as I was studying the 'Prometheus,' all at once Æschylus himself made his appearance. How, or whence, I did not seem to inquire; but in some way, (for you know dreams are incoherent and unaccountable,) I knew it to be Æschylus. His appearance was noble and imposing. He was past the middle age; his hair was 'of a sable-silver,' about midway in its progress toward the whiteness of old age, and fell carelessly over his elevated and strongly-marked forehead. His features were strong and almost severe, and his complexion brown and hardy. His whole appearance was not that of the pale scholar, nor of the well-fed nobleman, but of the man of action and exposure—strongly constituted, and sternly disciplined in the world. I told him I was studying his dramas. He seemed astonished. 'I supposed,' said he, 'they had perished long ago, or had been laid aside as specimens of the early and untrained efforts of the mind. I wrote them with labor indeed, but I wrote them for my own age, and did not dream that they would occupy the attention of posterity. You certainly must have those which are much better.' I then told him of our labors in the perusal of his writings, and our delight in them. In order to convince him of the reality of such efforts, and of their success, I opened before him the commentaries of our first scholars. He seemed amazed. 'Can it be,' he replied, 'that so much explanation is necessary?' My hearers never complained of obscurity.' 'But,' replied I, 'we live in a distant age, and speak a different language; in order, therefore, to see and feel the beauties of your writings, much explanation is necessary.'

'As to beauties,' said he, 'I wrote as well as I could, and aimed at securing the attention and gratification of my auditors, and at nothing more. But allow me to see what you regard as 'my beauties.' I then read to him one of those rich and masterly notes, in which B—— has so finely brought out the hidden sense of the poet. He thought a moment, and then, with a smile, replied: 'Well, that is helping me out finely! I am sure I never thought of such a construction as possible, but it is very good.' To my utter astonishment, he treated several of those ingenious elucidations in the same manner.I then pointed him to one of the important conjectural emendations of the text, as a specimen of modern scholarship. 'What!' said the wondering dramatist, 'you have mistaken: surely, this is not in my writings; whose is it? I hardly see what the passage itself can mean.' I then showed him that it was a part of 'Prometheus Vinctus.' 'Oh!' he exclaimed, 'I now understand; you have copied it wrong.'

'My astonishment interrupted my dream, and awoke me. Dreams are nothing, to be sure; but how could my mind run into such a fiction?'

'You are right in saying that dreams are not to guide our conduct: but may it not be, that some of your nocturnal suppositions come close upon the truth?'

'Oh no! I should as soon expect to catch Wolf tripping in Homer, as to find any such suppositions correct. I can easily account for my discouraging dream. I had been laboring the whole day upon a passage, of which the original was not indeed controverted, but the sense is given by two learned commentators in direct opposition to each other. One of them, after giving his rendering, says: 'Sensus cuique obvius est.' The other says of this interpretation: 'A genio linguæ Græcæ prorsus abhorret.' But this difference between scholars shows only how wide is the field for investigation.'

Let us now leave the philologist to his studies; to pore over difficulties which time has created, and scholar-like blunders magnified; to extort sense from passages which never contained it; to perplex himself with the attempt to form an opinion where the greatest differ, and where evidence is wanting to the human mind; to solve questions which are of no conceivable importance to human knowledge, and to labor life away upon that which can at best only serve as a monument of patient effort, like the achievement of the monk with his scissors or pen-knife, which represents only the expenditure of years. We would clearly recognise the value of the study of ancient languages in youth, when mind is in its forming state; when discipline is secured by close attention, and systematic action of the faculties by the study of system; but we deem it quite another thing to make the means the end; to pursue the lessons of boyhood, when the time of them is past, and all their benefits secured; to narrow the mind down to the perpetual investigation of minutiæ which have no bearing on human happiness, except as they may create a fictitious fame; to live among trifles, and for them.

Shall we be pronounced traitors to the cause of learning? Is it the object of learning to be learned? Is it not rather to make man a being of higher resources, and nobler action? We confess we are giving utterance to thoughts which have forced themselves upon us, when called to take a survey of the field of learning, to examine its divisions, to become acquainted with its laborers, and to labor ourselves upon its margin. If these thoughts should be derided as proceeding from an indolent or even an ignorant view of the case, we would reply, by asking two questions:First, Is there a limit to study, of the members pursuing it, and the extent of its pursuit? and,second, Where is that limit? Let it not be replied: 'We should fix no limit to the cultivation of the mind.' We are speaking ofstudy, in its common acceptation, and in this acceptation we offerthese questions. If this be a strange course of inquiry, is it an unreasonable one?

But let us not be too serious. The mistakes of men may sometimes be laughed at; and if any are found to spend their lives in seeking unprofitable knowledge—if any one delves all his days over learned trifles,

'And prizes Bentley's, Brunck's or Porson's note,More than the verse on which the critic wrote,This much at least we may presume to say,The premium can't exceed the price they pay.'

Such men might certainly be worse employed, and if time iswasted, it is not mischievously abused.

A young friend came lately, in great dejection and discouragement, to ask some advice respecting the obstacles which he had encountered in reading the Iliad. 'I am now studying,' said he, 'the catalogue of the Grecian fleet; and I am exceedingly puzzled to find out the exact situation of all the places which Homer mentions, and to trace all the nations and tribes to which the Grecian army is referred. I have studied carefully all the notes of Heyne and Clarke, but these are not full enough.'

'And why do you wish to trace them?'

The young student was mute with surprise: 'This is a strange question,' muttered he to himself, 'to come from a teacher, and an admirer of Homer!' 'What, Sir, must I notstudy outall the proper names? I supposed I could not be a good scholar without it.'

'Why should you?If you will think of this question, and give me a satisfactory answer, I will set myself at once to helping you.'

'But why did the commentators study so much upon these things?'

'That is another question for you to think of; and instead of answering it myself, I will wait for you to give me your best conjecture on the subject.'

The poor fellow was amazed. Never had he been more entirely confounded: 'My teacher asks me, why should I learn it! How strange!' Such were his thoughts, as he returned to his studies. In a few days he called again. He seemed not to know how to begin the conversation.

'Well, have you made out an answer to the questions which startled you so much?'

'Why, Sir; I cannot say that I am able to give any satisfactory answer.'

'Well then, my young friend, I charge you not to spend time and strength in searching for the situation of Homer's Nisyrus, Crapathus, and Casus, until you give some valid reason for so doing. As to the commentators, what will not men do for fame? How many labors have men performed with this motive, which were not only useless, but pernicious?'

Such a reply was indeed unexpected. The young pupil seemed at once bewildered, and relieved from anxiety, by such aparadoxicalsentiment. His mind had imbibed the common feeling that,mentallabor never constitutes an abuse of time. The maxim, 'No item of knowledge is contemptible,' had misled his mind, and he had been accustomed to feel thatlearningmust be great and good.

There is a sense, in which it may be truly said that nothing in the universe of God is despicable, except moral evil. The most minute portion of matter—the slightest organization—the obscurest fact in nature—is worthy of the notice of Mind. But are there not choices to be made? IsEVERYman justified in spending his life in the comparing of the blades of grass, or the pebbles of the sand? No work of human skill is to be despised; and yet who may sit down to cut paper, or tie knots, as the business of his life?

We once called at the study of a fine young man, who had set out to do his best, and to make a scholar. He was pale with long and severe study, and seemed to labor under some special dejection. On inquiring into his course of study, he made the following statement.

'I have lately begun to read Cicero de Oratore. I have always been accustomed to hear Cicero spoken of as the prince of Latin writers, and I resolved to make myself master of one at least of his treatises, and torealizethe whole benefit of a thorough and scholar-like acquaintance with this author. I commenced with the commentaries of Ernesti, Pearce, Proust, Harlessius, etc., etc., and resolved to know the whole. I soon came upon a passage which was obscure. I resorted to the Notes. Here I found six different readings proposed, and long comments on each. I read all the remarks of my commentators, which occupied me an hour. The conclusion to be derived from them was, that the original language of the sentence was not to be decided upon, and that the meaning of the author was left to conjecture. I then undertook to investigate the meaning of a legal term used by Cicero. After reading several pages of notes, and consulting half a dozen books of reference, I made myself master of the suppositions of the learned on the subject. I next took up the name of a Roman orator whom Cicero mentions. I read at great length, and discovered that his name had been found in several instances in the Latin writers, and that critics supposed that two persons of the same name had been alluded to in these instances. I had commenced the study with resolution, and had determined not to come short of the advantages of the thorough scholar. But, for an hour before you come in, I had been thinking, 'What am I doing, and what end am I securing? What if I should know a thousand things of this kind?Cui Bono?I do not intend to be indolent or fickle, but these thoughts have, I confess, made me dejected.'

The young man's honest and heart-felt account of himself was calculated to make one pause. Here was a high-toned and vigorous mind wearing away its energies, and narrowing its scope of vision, under the bondage of that public opinion respecting true learning, which took its rise and its form in the cells of the monastery, where the mind will seize upon any aliment rather than prey upon itself, and expend itself upon trifles, because it is shut away from thegreatrealities of life. A mind which was made to display its energies in the highest track of thought, and on the widest field of action, is imprisoned to count its beads, and mutter its task, in the temple of monastic lore. Public opinion must be subjected to frequent revision—let us not be pronounced radical—or errors will cling to the community, with the tendency of a mill-stone about the neck. An error, hallowed by strong and widely-connected associations, is noteasily exterminated. It passes on unharmed by those agitations which overwhelm the errors of a lower grade and humbler origin; and while the generation living in its shadow have never known the light which it intercepts, they regard it as a part of the system of things, and one of the conditions of their being. Thus has the high regard which mankind accord to mental efforts, as distinguished from physical, had the effect to hallow even the follies of intellect, and to prolong the existence of those errors respecting the cultivation of the mind, which lead us to regard it rather as a receptacle of hoarded knowledge, than as a thing of active powers; to seek the acquisitions of the scholar as valuable in themselves, rather than as giving scope and expansion to the energies of a noble existence, and in the high estimation which Education has properly imparted to themeansof education, to make that mistake which comprehends so many others; to make the means the end.

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