shrubs still waved their blossoms in the twilight breeze; the streams still whispered gently in their beds, as, when a boy, I listened to their echoes; and man, only man, was changed. He had gone to commune with the spirit of dead ages; and the same flowers that he reared in life now waved over him in death.

On landing, I inquired of my relations, and found that they had all gone down into the narrow house, and that I was left alone upon earth. There was one friend in particular, to whom, in happier days, I had been warmly attached. I visited his once peaceful abode; it was a ruin, overgrown with trailing weeds. No sound welcomed me as I approached; and the voice that was once so cheerful was now silent in the grave. I requested to see his tomb, and that I might offer up a prayer to Veshnoo on his sod. It was shown me, and I resolved to pass the remainder of my days on the spot.

I have now lived a long time in solitude, and the hour is fast approaching when my name shall be known no longer. Still I shall not be altogether forgotten, if this brief record of my adventures shall excite the curiosity or commiseration of mankind. I set out in life with sensibility warm in the pursuit of a friend. From my own beautiful religion, as well as from the sincerity with which it is reverenced by the Brahmins, I imagined that all religions were equally pure, all votaries equally sincere. But I have been mistaken in my conjectures. I fancied that friendship was only to be found in unison with piety, whereas it is rarely found either with or without it. In prosecuting my search after affection, I was blinded by a misguided enthusiasm. I should have judged mankind by the records of ages, and not foolishly have set up a standard of excellence suggested only by the warmth of my own feelings. I should then have found a friend in the high churchman, the Spaniard, the Mahometan, the Methodist, and even the literary waspling; and we might have lived for years together, without once discovering that our principles were diametrically opposite. As it is, I am left alone upon the earth; a wretch in the midst of happiness. I see all around me

tranquil, but am unable to enjoy tranquillity myself. The poor Indian goes out in the morning, and sings while he plies his task of labour, to return at night into the bosom of domestic happiness; while I, to whom nature has unfolded her book of knowledge, to whom experience has communicated her treasures, am cursed in the possession of those treasures. In my native country I must never find a friend; my sensibility exacts too much, and where is the man who can brook a superior?

Yet a few days, yet a few brief days, and the transmigrations reserved for me will commence. The mighty Avater will descend in the pomp of thunder and lightning, and demand, in the name of Veshnoo, the completion of his measureless revenge. Perhaps, in animating the soul of another animal, I may know tranquillity that I have never yet experienced. As an eagle, I may sail majestically through the clouds, gather light from the sun-beam, and rapture from the whirlwind. As a leviathan, I may gambol in the vast depths of the ocean; or, as a lion, rival the voice of the living thunder. Still I shall be the foe-the hated foe of mankind; and, perhaps, in the shape of a calf, I may afford a fillet of veal to the Methodist who lost his turbot; or, under the likeness of a young lady, give to the stoic an opportunity of enlarging" on the harmonious aptitude of the creation, and the universal consentaneousness of things." Déjeuné.

RETROSPECTION.

EVE drops her curtain from the hill,
Her dewy tints spread o'er the lea ;
Lull'd are all sounds, all motions still,
But, Marian, yet I gaze on thee.

More sweetly by this dubious light

Flows from thy lips that melting tone;
The world hath vanish'd from our sight,
And my soul breathes of thee alone.

Thou, Marian, givest the power I feel
Departed joys to taste again;
And even, with thrift of pleasure, steal
New bliss from recollected pain.

That mournful hour we parted last,
How sunk my soul by grief subdued!
And heavily the moments pass'd,
Till Albion's cliffs again I view'd.

'Twas morn-methought so fair a morn
Ne'er dawn'd upon this beauteous isle ;
The vernal earth seem'd newly born,
The gracious heavens look'd down to smile.

The mariner estranged full long

From sylvan sounds, his chartless way Delights to trace through groves of song, And quaff the balmy soul of May.

He loves to linger in the dale,
All under leafy awning laid,
Communing sweetly with the gale
That late his daring soul dismay'd.

But, Marian, not the grateful shade,

Nor vernal breath, nor warble wild, From thee my wayward step betray'd, Of thee my vagrant thought beguiled.

On all I glanced as in a dream,

Whilst hills, or dells, or vales withdrew;
Till dimly, by the moon's wan beam,
Yon spire, my beacon, rose to view.

And when that transient glimpse I caught,
What wild emotion swell'd my breast!

To transport and to terror wrought,

By doubts, and even by hopes, oppress'd.

Yet once, as if to woo delay,

I sought a path where path was none;
And once I measured back my way,
As if some mortal foe to shun.

The path where last we bade farewell
Now seem'd unwont to human tread;
The moon look'd through the lonely dell,
And flickering shadows round me spread.

But soon I saw thy casement shine,
As, tinted by the silvery light,
Thy roof, like some religious shrine,

Rose through the darkness, glimmering bright.

And silent as the midnight thief,

The wicket now I softly pass'd, And, yet my soul withheld belief,

Touch'd, trembling touch'd, the latch at last.

There while I stood, unheard, unseen,
His mat the dog supinely press'd;
The clock, with solemn pause between,
Told ten, the sober hour of rest.

I felt the icy chills of fear,

The fate-exploring sigh I drew ;
Was rapture or was anguish near?
O! lived my love? was Marian true?

"Twas then I caught that melting tone;
I knew my Marian's magic strain;
And, O! the bliss till then unknown-
The heighten'd bliss derived from pain!

E. B.

CLASSICAL ASSOCIATIONS CONNECTED

WITH GARRETS.

We never think of a garret, but an infinitude of melancholy and lanky associations of skin and bone, poets and authors, come thronging on our imaginations. All ideas of the sins of the flesh evaporate on our entrance; for, if all the flesh that has ever inhabited a garret were to be duly weighed in the balances, we are of opinion that it would not altogether amount to a ton. In walking up the steps that lead to this domiciliary appendage of genius, we are wholly overcome by the sanctity of the spot. We think of it as the resort of greatness, the cradle and grave of departed intellect, and pay homage to it in a sullen smile, or a flood of tears. A palace, a church, or a theatre, we can contrive to pass with some degree of indifference; but a garret, a place where Goldsmith flourished, and Chatterton died, we can never presume to enter without first paying a tribute of reverence to the presiding deity of the place. How venerable does it appear, at least if it is a genuine garret, with its angular projections, like the fractures in poor Goldsmith's face, its tattered and thread-bare walls, like old Johnson's wig, and its numberless "loop-holes of retreat" for the north wind to peep through, and cool the poet's imagination. The very forlornness of its situation inspires elevated ideas in proportion to its altitude; it seems isolated from the world, and adapted solely to the intimate connexion that genius holds with heaven.

It was in a lonely garret, far removed from all connexion with mortality, that Otway conceived and planned his affecting tragedy of "Venice Preserved;" and it was in a garret that he ate the stolen roll, which ultimately terminated in his death. It was in a garret that poor Butler indited his inimitable Hudibras, and convulsed the king and the court with laughter, while he himself writhed in the gnawing pangs of starvation. Some one has thus aptly alluded to the circumstance :