the ploughman as well as that of the noble, and he exhibits it well in all its windings-in virtue and vice, in love and hatred, in joy and sorrow. He has watched, too, the turns of human life, and how sadly, yet how well, does he depict them! Take one example-the quotation is long, but I will read it :— 'Ha! a splendid equipage with a coronet! and out steps, handed by her elated husband, a high-born, beautiful, and graceful bride. They are making a tour of the lakes, and the honey-moon hath not yet filled her horns. * How they hang towards each other, the blissful pair! blind in their passion to all the scenery they came to admire, or beholding it but by fits and snatches, with eyes that can see only one object of mutual adoration. She hath already learnt to forget father and mother, and sister and brother, and all the young creatures like herself—every onethat shared the pastimes and the confidence of her virgin youthhood. With her, as with Genevieve, All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of love, And feed his sacred flame. And will this holy state of the spirit endure? No-it will fade, and fade, and fade away, sunset after sunset, so imperceptibly, so unconsciously, so like the shortening of the long summer days, that lose minute after minute of the light, till again we hear the yellow leaves are rustling in autumnal evening, that the heart within that snow-drifted bosom will not know how great has been the change, till all of a sudden it shall be told the truth, and with a shiver of despairing agony, feel that all mortal emotion, however paradisiacal, is nothing but the shadow of a dream!" "Is there not power in that sketch, Frank, and agony in the thrice sad conclusion? And then turn to his pictures of humble Scottish life-an arena where none can compete with him but ROBERT BURNS-and you cannot help but love him, for his very nationality. But how genial his humor!-if, as doctors say,' laughter promotes the digestion, no reader of Kit North need fear an indigestion. "His searching but just critical powers, his now playful, now stern, gloomy, and powerfully poetic fancy, his knowledge of human life, his learning, his humor, his pathos, his versatility, have gained for him a station which another will not easily usurp." "Yet," said Weston, "Carlyle certainly surpasses him in nearly all of these requisites. Learning! What living man in that equals Thomas Carlyle? True, he delights not, like Macaulay, in displaying it wherever he can do so with decency, or without. But there is a silent current of it running through all his writings, a current which allures not the ear and eye by noisy babbling and vain glitter, but majestically rolls on its calm depths, imparting life and richness to the whole. (Zounds! what a metaphor!) The lore of the East and North, of the classic lands, and of the modern languages, is as familiar to him as that of the English tongue. All books, both great and small,' he seems to have read, and read with the intellect and understanding. If you would test his critical powers, read that one article on Burns. He does not stand afar off and examine with a mental telescope the poet's petty peculiarities, but he enters, as it were, into his very being; hears with his ears, and sees with his eyes, the man as he was; he becomes conversant with him, traces his path from the first budding of his faculties to their maturity and decay; watches the incoming of his percep tion, the dawning of his ideas, his relations to the world around him, and the influence of that world upon his own soul. And then, thus prepared for his task, he comes before the reader, and with all the energy of our strong Saxon tongue, makes known the result. The consequence is, that his criticisms never have been equaled. Read the article headed Voltaire.' When has the character of the high-priest of infidelity been elsewhere drawn like that? Do you not almost see before you the gaunt form of the 'persifleur,' with his restless eye and thin, sneering lip? I might particularize farther, but it is unnecessary." "Yet there is one thing more, Frank. What would you say of his philosophy?" "The old objection, Rowley, not fully brought out, and but half insinuated; hang it! I believe with Jonson, "There is no taste in this philosophy; "Tis like a potion which a man should drink, However, I will try to give you an idea of what I think upon the subject, though I fear that my notions may be almost as muddy as those of the most ultra American transcendentalist. I do not believe in Carlyle's philosophy, and why? because I cannot fully understand it. I have no doubt but that he has a conception of what he means, but till I share in that conception, I cannot assent to his doctrines. I do not disbelieve them, for I know not what they are, and till I do know, I shall be contented with the orthodox creed. Sartor Resartus I have carefully perused. I found therein many novel ideas, many excellent aphorisms; but the philosophical theory which it may contain, is as unintelligible to me as the language of the Choctaws. There is, however, one point which I understand and cordially approve. It may not be very novel, but nowhere else have I seen it so earnestly enforced as in the writings of Carlyle. It is the recognizing a brother, formed in the image of the same God, in every individual of the human race-the spirit of universal love. I do believe that no one can read carefully and impartially the works of Carlyle, and not feel, sensibly, when he has finished, the change which they have effected upon his heart. He will find that they have taught him to pity, not hate his fellow-men, for their crimes and follies; to look upon the poor and degraded, not with disgust, but compassion; to use one of your own sentiments, Harry, to scorn the action, while he grieves over the actor. He will learn from them to despise meanness, hypocrisy, falsehood, and all vice; they will teach him that when others are striving to do him wrong, the injury must and will recoil upon the heads of the wrong-doers, so long as he is himself upright and stedfast, and they will fill his breast with a kind of sorrowful love, even for his deadliest enemies ; they will tend to remove from his bosom all hatred, malevolence, untruth, and evil desire, and to plant there instead, love, compassion, truth, and probity; in a word, to cause him to strive to prove himself a man, the express image of the Most High. Such is a part of their influence upon the heart; and I believe that they are calculated to exert an influence equally beneficial upon the mind. They expand its views, and create in it a tendency to contemplate the whole, while it neglects not the parts; to examine a subject in all its relations, instead of considering its bearing upon some individual point alone, thus showing that that which at first sight appeared a disadvantage, viewed comprehensively may be a lasting benefit; removing false impressions gathered from isolated instances, and bringing fairly to our knowledge the general good and the general evil. Besides" "Heigh-ho! Frank," ejaculated Davison, "that speech is getting rather boreous; don't be offended now-I only wished to drop a friendly hint." "Go on, Frank, go on!" exclaimed Rowley; "Ned, I'll be hanged" "Havn't the least doubt of it, Harry, not the least; but then that's a minor consideration; now you must admit that”— "The deyvil" cried Harland, looking at his watch, and snatching up his hat, he disappeared instanter. X. There is a song of old Izaak Walton's, to be found in the Complete Angler, the chorus of which runs thus: "Bright shines the sun! play, beggars, play! Here's SCRAPS enough to serve to-day." Are you ready, reader, to echo the sentiment of the concluding line? Well, be it so. For these three summer months we have turned over the pages of the Note-Book together-there are yet many leaves remaining, but we are both inclined to think that we have seen enough, and so-the Scraps are ended. Three summer months! It does not seem thus long, for it has been the season of verdure, and flowers, of singing of birds, of sunny skies and of soft breezes, and with us it has also been the season of youth and love and hope, and time flies all too swiftly then, but the months have indeed passed away, and autumn is fast coming upon us. When we first met, the May flowers had hardly fallen, and the songsters were just building their nests; but now, the swallows are seeking another clime, and the faded, yellow leaves of the willow are strewing our walks. The meadows and gold-waving grain fields have yielded their tribute to the husbandman,-the fruit trees are dropping their rich produce, and the grape clusters are beginning to assume a purple tint. The deep azure of the heavens, also, has changed to a dusky hue, and the landscape wears the sober aspect of declining maturity. And while nature has been thus busy, what, O reader! hast thou been doing? Perhaps stedfastly pursuing the path of industry; hope, enthusiasm, and honorable ambition sustaining you in all your labors; and, perhaps, you have given yourself up to idleness, folly, or crime. Well, whatever your course may have been, its consequences are yet to come, and alas for you! if you are to meet them with an unclean conscience. "Cast forth thy act, thy word, into the ever-living, ever-working universe; it is seed-grain that cannot die; unnoticed to-day, it will be found flourishing as a banyan-grove, perhaps, alas! as a hemlock forest after a thousand years." But, softly, I am getting somewhat too censorious for a parting friend. Ha! that was a chilly gust through the open window, and the flame of the lamp leaps and bends aside, as if but another breath were needed to extinguish it. That clock just striking has a gloomy sound. One-two-three,-seven-tentwelve, twelve o'clock. Let us take a look out, and glance at the sky, if these thick-spreading elms will allow us; a cloudy night, but there are broken places now and then, and yonder high-high up a single star is beaming through the masses. Another chill blast from the northwest, and we must fain close the casement. There is indeed something sad to me in this leave-taking; the preparing of these papers for the reader has afforded to me many pleasant hours; it has brought back to my mind old friends, some of whom are now far distant, others who are in their graves, and others still, over whose memory I would gladly draw the curtain of oblivion. It has made the past, present to me; and often have I meditatively laid down my pen, and held communion with happy reminiscences, till the shades of evening or the midnight clock hath startled me from my reverie. Such hath it been to me, and if, reader, the result has |