impeachable; what then? If a man has lived, and written, and distinguished himself, by his writings, might we not infer that he was born and educated somewhere, at some time, and under certain circumstances? Would it require a very excessive stretch of credulity to believe that the root of his pedigree extended back several generations, at least, even if his grandfathers and great-grandfathers were not specified, in regular line, up to Noah and his family? Do we really need a folio to make this matter plain to our comprehension? Furthermore, is it absolutely essential to the best interest of the literary public, or to mankind generally, to be informed whether the doublet of such an one was blue, white, or black; whether he wore a cue or a wig; whether he rose at five, or six, or seven in the morning; whether he lived on a strictly vegetable, or animal, or mixed diet; whether he studied in an upright or in a sitting posture?

Many, we are aware, would deduce rules from the habits of great men, to govern the life and conduct of young students. And so they may. But these rules will be either so obvious to all as to need no such illustration, or so diverse as to be valueless to others. Repeated attempts have been made to discover a royal road, a sort of "Northwest passage," to eminence; but, so far, they have proved repeated failures. And it will probably be found in the end,-what indeed might have been known at the outset,-that the man who has genius enough to become great, has likewise common sense enough to employ that genius aright. Ten individuals, we will venture to assert, have been led, by reading Boswell's Life of Johnson-a work perfect in its kind-to ape the habits of the sloven, the egotist, and the glutton, for every one who has thus been induced to practice the abstemiousness of the student, the virtue, the intense application and gigantic efforts of the literary Hercules.

Besides, what is this hankering for whatever can, and much that ought not to be said of the departed? Is it aught else than mere idle curiosity, perhaps we should say, the vulgar appetite for scandal? True, it is a little more fastidious than usual; but is it not also more insatiable? for it levies sustenance for its cravings from the cold tenants of the grave, and often, with more than Vandal ferocity, disturbs their last sacred repose. If we are to have works of this description respecting great literary men, let us have, not biography, but autobiography; not the dubious guess-work of strangers, nor the motley gleanings of insolent eaves-droppers, or of hollow-hearted friendship, nor yet the minute detail of every-day life and habits; but rather the bold, prominent, and faithful outline of intellectual and moral character. Such an autobiography does every man write, who publishes his thoughts on any subject to the world. In it, the expression of his mind, the lineaments of his soul, are portrayed with more than daguerreotype exactness. It is a portrait, in which the cheeks glow with life-tints, the eyes sparkle, and utter their own mysterious language. It is a Pygmalion statue ; and, while we are gazing, the celestial fire descends to animate it, the heart throbs, the ruddy life-current leaps along the veins, the lips open with words of wisdom, and we commune with a living friend!

We deem it, then, evident, from what has been said, that, if we have not biographies of the great literary men of the past and present, we can yet, in their writings, commune with them on far more intimate terms than by means of these biographies; and thus we can reap the richest harvest of advantages which can possibly spring from such a communion. What then are some of these advantages?

It is in this way only that any actual advance in knowledge can be made. Were the generations of men perfectly isolated, in point of knowledge, so that the acquisitions of a preceding should be hidden from the view of a succeeding one, the stature of the human mind, in all ages, like the dimensions of the trees of the forest, would observe the same uniform standard. It is this power of transmitting ideas from one generation to another, which imparts progress to knowledge. Nor is it a mere transmission of ideas in the same form and number, which makes knowledge progressive; but, if we may use the illustration, the acquisitions of one generation become the principal in the hands of the next, which principal it is to transmit, with interest, to its successor. Thus, a truth, first detected in one age, and more plainly seen in another, is comprehended in its relations and bearings; as the marble is first dug up from the quarry, a rude, misshapen slab, then reduced to the form of a regular block, then to that of a rough-hewn image, till at last it stands forth in the graceful symmetry and beautiful proportions of the exquisitely wrought statue.

There is a close analogy between the progress of an individual in knowledge and that of the race. The individual begins his progress by learning the alphabet of a language, and advances from that to simple sentences, from these to complex propositions, and so on. The race commenced its education in the infancy of the world, by learning the rudiments-the alphabet of truth-and from that time to this, it has been advancing, by successive steps, into the depths of art and science, and into the higher regions of philosophy and poetry. The present generation should therefore occupy the front rank in this march of knowledge; but it must do so by making the acquisitions of past generations its own for if it rejects them, if it throws away the previous steps of reasoning, in the solution of the various problems of truth, it will have to go back, and commence the process anew.

Doubtless, the greatest minds have often formed theories, now seen to be visionary; and advocated systems of Philosophy, since shown to be false. But it is also true, that, intermingled with them, and shining with superior lustre, from a contrast with base materials, are many invaluable gems of truth. Much genuine wheat is growing among the tares. We sometimes regard these false systems of Philosophy as valuable, perhaps indispensable modes of arriving at the reality of things; those mathematical theorems, in which a proposition is established by demonstrating the absurdity of its converse. any rate, they stand as beacons to warn us of the rocks on which others have split. The Indian, who treads the pathless wilds of a North American wilderness, notches the trees with his tomahawk, as he passes along; and, thus, he is enabled to retrace his steps, others

At

to follow them. In these exploded theories, these false reasonings, are signs, made by those who precede us, to indicate where the path of true knowledge lies. Assisted, then, by the attainments of past generations, and guided by their experience, we are prepared for still farther advances-for still loftier flights in knowledge.

Whether the present age is actually making this advance, is quite another matter. To us, it seems not. Knowledge, although daily becoming more universally diffused, seems to have ceased, in a great measure, its aggressions on the kingdom of error. Indeed, from being progressive, it has become reflexive. It is regarded not as a means of farther advancement, but as an ultimate end. The human mind seems to consider it the paramount object of its being, to gaze intently at its own image as mirrored in the silent depths of its past achievements.

Perhaps, however, the progress of knowledge, from its very nature, must be intermittent and periodical; the periods between the different stages of advancement being employed in reviewing. If so, this, most assuredly, is one of the reviewing ages. Still, we frankly acknowledge we cannot suppress the fear, that, like a lazy heir, we have received our patrimony, and are set down to admire over and over again; to count and re-count, to view and re-view the golden inheritance; or, what is still more ridiculous, that we are endeavoring to increase its value by battering out the coin, or by mixing it with some base alloy. There is another view of this branch of our subject. That power, or mode, by which the works of Nature excite emotions of terror, beauty, sublimity, has often been termed "the Language of Nature"-a language un-written, addressed not to the natural or to the vulgar ear, but speaking eloquently to the inner perception of the sensitive and gifted mind. This language Nature hath ever spoken. In the dawn of the Creation it swelled forth in one full concert of harmony, when "the morning stars sang together."

Nature hath not existed these six thousand years, uttering this language from all her varied works, without exciting some response. Inspired bards have responded in every age. They have responded in the passionate gushings of overflowing hearts. They have responded with joy and with tears. Nature hath listened, as it were, and learned another language. It is the Language of Association. And many a wild note, many a tuneful strain, many a snatch of deathless song hath she treasured up in her memory.

Go forth, ye who, in like manner, have learned this language; go forth, with silent and thoughtful hearts, into the green fields, or upon the gray old mountain-she shall speak with you there. In the autumn, when the forest hath put on its many-colored vesture, and a dreamy haze hath gathered on all the gloomy hills, and the bird is caroling his plaintive farewell to his native vales-then shall she whisper to you in touching language,

"The melancholy days are come,
The saddest of the year."

She shall address you in each returning season. She shall speak to you, from every tree, and flower, and murmuring stream. Universal Nature shall commune with you, and shall be an Instructor, a Companion, a Friend.

Again; this communion, of which we are speaking, invigorates and enlarges the intellect. This must be so from the Laws of Mind. Mind is susceptible of indefinite expansion. Action is the means of this expansion. And action, in its most efficient mode, does the mind experience, in communion with the highest orders of intellect. Who, that has set down to peruse the works of a Milton, or of a Dante, and given himself up to the full influence of their mighty creations, has not arisen, feeling within him the consciousness of being himself a greater and a better man than before?

This communion, also, inspires enthusiasm in literary pursuits. is the Parent of a noble ambition. It is the Genius of lofty aims. It imparts acuteness to the perception of ideal beauty. Thus, it discovers to the mental eye a new world-a world of thought-radiant with bright imaginings, instinct with the forms of lofty conceptions; a world where bubble perennial fountains of pleasure, and where the breezes are laden with odors more fragrant than the breath of Araby;-a world which shall survive when these visible heavens shall have been rolled together as a scroll, and this earth shall have passed away,-a world whose existence is co-eternal with the mind-whose realities shall never fade-whose joys shall have no end.

A DREAM.

I LAID me down on a bank one day;
I was worn and weary and tired of play;
"Twas in a thicket of hazel deep,
Where Fairies might their revels keep.
A jessamine vine was clambering there,
And many a flower perfumed the air;
The breeze, with my locks it carelessly
played,

I lay and slept on a bank so green,
It seemed a couch for a Fairy queen:
But as I slept, a maiden came,
A fairer form I cannot name:
Her locks were dark as the raven's breast,
Her eye as bright as a silvery star
That catches a tint from the fading west,
And shines alone in the blue afar.
Her step so light-'twas made to tread
But only on the rose's bed;

And then flew on through the forest shade.
On its viewless wings, so light and free
The breath of the flowers it seem'd to be.
The music of birds was sounding there,
But ere their notes half died on the air,
They mingled their strain with the voice of That am'rous played her locks among.

the rill,

Her breast a veil but half revealed,
Which more enhanced what it concealed:
Her tresses to the breeze she flung,

That prattled and danced and leapt down All sounds were hush'd-the winds were

And dash'd on its banks its foam and its She placed her hands upon the lute,

spray,

As its life were an endless holyday.

And woke a strain as soft and sweet,

As that which might an angel greet,

When from some embassy of love,
He mounts to Paradise above.

She ceased—from many a feather'd throat

A voice of praise came swelling
Like the music strains that float

Round Peris' coral dwelling.
The woods in vain attempt essay'd
Those tones to hold in their forest glade;
Soon they fled on the breeze's wing,
Like the heart's fond imagining,
And left no more of trace behind,

Than did the fleeting summer wind.
I woke ah! was it but a dream,
A fond delusion sent,
Like the spray upon the stream,
In its creation spent?

Ah! yet methinks at times I hear
Those magic tones so soft and clear,
Entrancing with a strange delight
The senses, till the soul takes flight,
And wings its way obedient to that power
That dwelt upon the lute in that sweet hour.
W.C.

RAMBLES IN SWITZERLAND.

Within the

LUCERNE, situated at the head of a bay of the same name, in the lake of the Four Cantons, is a town of much note in Swiss history. It still retains some political importance, in consequence of being, with Berne and Zurich, a city in which the Diet of Switzerland holds its alternate sittings. It is also the residence of the papal nuncio. walls of this city, which was one of the first to assert the independence of Switzerland in opposition to the formidable power of the Empire, are contained, at present, a population of as devoted adherents to Roman Catholicism, as any which the "Apostolic Church" can boast. There are 7500 inhabitants, of whom all but 180 are Catholics. The inhabitants are a lazy population, frequenting the churches in business hours, bearing their votive offerings which go to the support of an indolent priesthood. Its architecture is of feudal origin. On the side of the land, it is protected by a wall of strong but rude workmanship, containing seven towers, each of which is unlike the others in size and shape. Each of them seems to have been built at a different period from the others, and without any idea of symmetry. Several of these are surmounted by observatories. One sees here, as in every Swiss town of note, fountains decorating the streets, surmounted by some piece of statuary representing, most commonly, a warrior in the dress of the middle ages. From the balcony of the Hotel des Ballances we overlooked the River Reuse, which, flowing in a rapid current from the lake, passes through a portion of the town, on its way to unite with the Rhine.

Just without the walls of the city, in the grounds of Col. Phyffer, I visited a monument erected to the memory of the Swiss guards who died in defending the Bourbons, at Paris, in the revolutionary struggle of August 10th, 1792. A large niche is cut in the perpendicular face of a gray limestone rock, in which is carved in full, a lion, which, having received his mortal wound, and in the act of dying, holds his paw upon a shield, on which is carved the fleur de lis of the Bourbons. The shaft of the dart that inflicted the fatal wound, is seen projecting from