rest steals over us, and for a moment we desire never again to mingle with the tumult of the world.

Such a reverie, however sad, affords a melancholy pleasure that is often sought. Indeed, there is a class of vain and giddy persons, to whom meditation is never welcome but in such an hour, and even then, their thoughts but ill-directed prove their own worst foe. Yet none the less does it behoove us all, and at all times, to be thoughtful; and thought, when properly directed, will sometimes lead to sadness. A sorry sight it is, to behold human actions and events stripped of all their specious names, and the human heart laid bare before our view. The miseries and follies of mankind are full enough, to draw a sigh from the cold heart of the veriest Stoic in the world. All the great men, who have ever accomplished great results for the cause of truth and justice, have had a vein of sadness in their nature; their great souls have been always full of serious, earnest thought. Hence we know better how to sympathize with the melancholy man; for he commenced his work in the only true way, first thoughtful and sad. But, unfortunately, his sorrow will not leave him, even after it has pointed out the road to some great action, and all its proper work has ceased. Despite his will, it still continues to prey upon him.

We

It is fair to infer from what has now been said, that HE is no ordinary man. He never was intended to be a mere "hewer of wood and drawer of water." Nature has given him a reflecting mind, and a most refined sensibility, for noble ends. He was designed to stand among the boldest advocates of justice and humanity, and to fight a valiant fight against the very follies, and deceits, and treacheries of the world, of which he so grievously complains. But by some unhappy stroke, these have triumphed over him-have driven his noble soul from its proper channel, and cast it a miserable wreck upon the shoals of life. It may be that so slight a cause as bodily pain, attended with derangement of the nerves, has turned the contest against him. But whatever may be the cause, let us be lenient in our judgment upon one whom the finger of God has so plainly touched. have no sympathy with that uncharitable philosophy, which taunts his misery as the result of some silly vanity, that has been wounded, or of excessive pride, that has been mortified, or high ambition disappointed. No, Cowper had too long exposed the silly affectation of fashionable life; his heart had too long been bleeding for the oppressed of every clime, at last to fall the victim of such ignoble causes. had too long exposed hypocrisy and canting in every form, at last to let his heart be broken by their hollow praise or censure; and Luther had too often bared his arm against wickedness and corruption in high places, at last to let it droop through want of any power which these could bestow. The melancholy of such men, truly, cannot be traced to one, nor all of these unworthy sources; but it must be ascribed to that exquisite sensibility, by which every changing hue of life chases over their souls, like the cold shadows of a moonlit cloud over some sylvan lake.

Burns

When the Melancholy Man has once been cast into the gloom, how

vain seems all his toil to search his way out. Not an object meets his view, but it induces sombre thoughts. The fair earth is spread out before him, rejoicing in all the smiles of an autumn day. But has she not been drenched with the blood of as many millions slain in battle, as ever reaped her plenteous harvests? The orchard groans beneath its loads of mellow, golden fruit, and the vineyard is hung with richest clusters of grapes. But is not the liquid fire distilled from these, to degrade man, "the noblest work of God," lower than the beasts of the field, and to madden his brain with fiendish passions? The splendid mansion ornamented with every decoration that art can give, or genius can bestow, furnished with every comfort that the most fastidious taste can wish, is presented to his view. But in the truly touching language of Thompson, he exclaims,

"Ah! little think the gay, licentious, proud,

Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround-
Ah! little think they as they dance along,
How many feel, this very moment, death,
And all the sad variety of pain.

How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms.
Sore pierced by wintry winds,

How many shrink into the sordid hut

Of cheerless poverty. How many stand

Around the death bed of their dearest friends,

And point the parting anguish."

Or perchance some secluded little cottage, whose pure and lovely white melts in so sweetly, with the darker bues of ivy, locust, and evergreen, speaks to him a tale of domestic bliss. But no, the worse than murderous Seducer has insinuated himself even there, and robbed a happy family of their only Jewel. Talk to him of friendship. He silently points to the man, whose every friend deserted him at the sound of the sheriff's hammer, and whose reputation was slandered away by the tongue of envious malice. As a patriot, he would rejoice at the glorious progress of truth and freedom in the land, did he not know, that even now millions of immortal beings are dragging out a life of servitude and bondage. As a philanthropist, he would join in the general jubilee for the triumph of liberty, in the various parts of the world, did he not know that her victories have too often been achieved at the expense of such bloody contests as attended the French Revolution.

Thus his mind has lost all of its recuperative power. The energizing principle is gone, and he is left the passive prey of his own gloomy thoughts. But reproach him not, for he is overpowered by noble and generous emotions. And though we may not believe that a single ray of light or joy will ever again beam upon his path all of the way down to the grave, yet of him, when laid in that cold and narrow bed, let us devoutly pray

"Requiescat in pace."

MY FOREST HOME.

BY G. C. H.

"Tis a charming spot-my forest home, Away in the woods so wild:

Where the wild-birds soar, and the waters roar,

And the stars look down so mild.

Where a shaded bower receives my form,
And the vine entwines the tree;

And the mellow call of the waterfall
Invites so lovingly.

"Tis a witching spot-my forest home,

When the moonlight hours come on;

And the little stream throws back its gleam,

Then runneth merrily on!

As it nestleth now in its grassy bed,

Then creepeth slily along;

Like a maiden so shy of the tell-tale eye,

As if stars could hear its song!

'Tis a quiet place-my forest home,

In the lagging summer hours,

With its birds and bees, and leaves and trees,
And the sweet perfume of flowers.

Oh, how deeply still is the place at noon,

Entombed from the noisy world!

When the birds all creep to their noon-day sleep, And the zephyr's sail is furled!

"Tis a glorious place my forest home,

With its autumn glories on!

It may look sad, but it seemeth glad

To wear its golden crown.

The nuts, they fall like a storm of hail,

And the squirrels busily run;

And the scraggy moss has a silvered gloss

In the mellow autumn sun!

"Tis a holy spot-my forest home,

When winter reigns supreme;

With its robe of snow, and the smothered flow

Of the frozen little stream!

And the trees hold out their ice-gloved arms,

And the cold winds howl and roam;

Oh, I'll never rove from the home I love,

My happy FOREST HOME!

AN INTERVIEW EXTRAORDINARY.

I SOMETIMES, of a leisure hour, amuse myself in imagining the social and domestic qualities of some one or other of the distingués of olden time. Indeed, so fond have I become of picturing in my mind how a favorite author, orator, captain or what not, would feel, look, and talk in the society of his family or in every-day intercourse with neighbors and friends, that it has grown almost to a passion with me. A friend of mine, knowing this to be the case, furnished me, not long since, with what purports to be a sketch of an interview between Virgil and Horace. It is attached to an unpretending volume, the preface of which would imply that it was written by a cotemporary. But why it has remained so long unappreciated and unknown, is a query. I presume, however, as my friend is something of a dabbler in the classics, he has thought to impose upon my credulity, even at the expense of my good nature. Be this as it may, I will inflict a translation of it upon my readers, trusting that the conversation of these two persons on casual topics, and the small additional ray of light it may shed upon their social intercourse, will be ample apology.

I may here acknowledge my obligations to better scholars than myself, and especially would I confess my indebtedness to certain lights and illuminations, (phenomena by no means rare in most works of the classical authors of antiquity,) which kept springing up as if by magic at either margin of the pages in the course of my labors and researches.

The author appears to be the hero of the sketch, and the sketch itself is quite as follows:

"Learning while out on a hunting excursion, with six or eight good fellows from the city, that we were in the immediate neighborhood of the country residence of Horace, or as the poet himself calls it, his 'Sabine farm,' I immediately determined to separate myself from my companions for the purpose of examining the premises.

"My curiosity was greatly heightened on learning that the poet was spending a little time at his villa, and also that he was daily expecting the arrival of his friend Virgil, from the delightful villa of the latter in the Campania Felix. I had frequently seen them in the bustle and gayety of the city, and had a tolerable idea of the striking characteristics of each. But I was exceedingly anxious to see them in the country, where they could converse familiarly, and be free from the embarrassing formalities of the Court. Leaving my Satureian in the care of a groom, thither I hastened my steps. Finally, after brushing hedges, (as the rustics say,) leaping streamlets, passing through orchards borne down with fruit, and vineyards literally clothed in purple, I found myself, with a whole head and a light heart, on the private grounds of the poet.

"As I hastened along to the villa, which stands in the central part of the grounds, I caught a glimpse of the poet's steward, whom I

knew of old, and who is, by the way, a most notorious character at Rome, and the one whom Horace addressed in an epistle which appeared in the last correction of his Epistles, published by the Sosii. Not wishing to be seen by the varlet, I dodged behind some latticework, upon which a thrifty vine had been trained, and thus ensconced I was able to see all his maneuverings, and a deal more besides.

"He was just turning away from two persons who were quietly seated on a rustic bench beneath the thick shade of a clump of sturdy old holms. They seemed to be engaged in easy conversation, leaving it off and resuming it at pleasure. These intervals were sometimes thoughtful, but more generally, I observed, their eyes dwelt upon the scenery which spread itself out before them in the form of charming landscapes. I should have said that I recognized, from my sconce, in the individuals spoken of above, Horace himself and his distinguished and worthy guest, the author of the Bucolics, etc. etc. The steward had been the subject of conversation, as nearly as I could gather from a few words, spoken in that voice which the fair Lalage was wont to say was the only one in all Rome in which words distilled as they fell upon the ear. The observation I caught was nearly this : 'He is a faithful fellow, for aught I know, but his discontented disposition renders him almost intolerable. When he is at Rome he importunes me to send him into the country, and, now that he is here, as you just saw, he gives me no rest that he may go back to the city. What to do with him I am at a loss to determine.

"But, my Virgil, we were talking, when he interrupted us, of the propriety of an author's expressing himself as to whether or not his own productions shall stand the test of time.'

"VIRGIL. We were, most excellent Horace, but just at the time of the interruption, I think, we were conversing more particularly on the exceeding liability of authors to misjudge their own productions. I recollect our views very nearly corresponded, and I was about relating, as he came up, some remarks Mæcenas once made, partly because they referred to a previous subject of conversation, and partly by way of defending me from the Emperor, who had been rallying me because, forsooth, I had received the day before a volley of compliments from the populace under cover of a truckshop, whither I had betaken myself on the way to my house on the Esquiline Hill, in order to avoid the vulgar gaze. I mind the time well-we were at the Palace, in the anteroom of the great hall. It was a private sitting, there being only three of us present. They had both been rather taking me to task for my foolish diffidence; but when it was grown late, and after having drunk off our goblets, and being about to separate for the night, Mæcenas, seemingly an observer of my embarrassment, remarked that 'nothing was more common than for men of genius to misjudge their own productions. This error of judgment,' he continued, ' arises partly from the inadequacy of the present means of expression, to convey the ideal, as it exists in the mind of the author. This inadequacy of expression, which arises mostly from the barrenness of language, is a serious inconvenience, which is felt by all writers, and especially by