And terror hold him powerless. Sooth it seems
A mass enormous, pierced by cunning hand
Of giant-artist, with a portal grand,
Leading to regions of stupendous dreams!
Well may the gazer in its presence stand
Oblivious of all else-woods, rocks, or streams!
No. 4.-FROM THE CAVE.

Yet whoso, mastering his first surprise,
Climbs with adventurous foot the dizzy steep,
And, through the archway, views the valley deep,
As far below in loveliness it lies,

Set in its rocky framework picture-wise,

And seeming like a strange and transient peep
Of some bright spot where fairies revels keep:
Whoso does thus, shall have before the eyes
Of memory, in many a distant day,
When the original is far away,

A picture which can be revived at will

Gray ivyed-crag, wild-wood, and sunbright rillA scene, remembrance of whose charms will soothe His care, and many a rugged hour make smooth.

No. 5.-THE NARROW PASS.

All the rare loveliness that ever was
Enshrined in poet's or in painter's dream-
All wildest groupings of rock, wood, and stream,
Seem congregated in this narrow pass.

In crystal pools as clear and smooth as glass
Rests the fair stream awhile, then hurries on,
Leaping from ledge to ledge, glad to be gone;
While scatter'd round us many a mighty mass
Of splinter'd rock uprears its hoary head
With ivy-wreaths and wild-flowers garlanded,
And bas'd in tangled brushwood clustering round.
Here let us rest, a soft and heathery bed
Receives us, while both eye and ear are fed
By rare perfections both of sight and sound.
No. 6.-THE DALE BY MOONLIGHT.
Wouldst thou behold a picture of the power
Of Nature, in her weirdest, wildest mood?
Roam thou this valley in the solitude
And dreamlike mystery of the midnight hour,
When the gigantic crags that upwards tower
From blackest depths, like spires of silver shine,
Smit by the full-orb'd moon with light divine,
That falls upon them in a sparkling shower,
While, 'neath their mighty shadow, each recess
Behind them, pall'd in ebon darkness, lies
An awful Hades of mysterious gloom;
While they shine on in radiant loveliness,
Catching the light-celestial from the skies,
Like angel-presences above the tomb.
Bowdon, 19th March, 1862.

Joing Too Much.

BY ELIZA COOK.

We have only to cast our eyes around us, allowing a small quantity of brain to accompany them, and it will, we think, be prominent to all observers, that the possibility of "doing too much" is most amply and diversely proved in this present era of the last half of the nineteenth century. We have met with an old Greek saying, tantamount to the declaration, that all evil is the excess of good;" and, verily, we may find practical evidence pretty often, strongly confirmatory of the philosophical assertion. Let us state in this prefatory portion of our pages, that our own temperament, pursuits, and desires, all tend to encourage and aid the vital "keep moving" principle of "progression." We are no mourners over the days of the old eight-horse waggon system of locomotion, when a snail of sound constitution, accustomed to out-door exercise, would have stood a fair chance of starting from London with the celebrated "Highflyer” coach, and entering York, neck-and-neck with the said astonishing volicipede. We have no prejudiced respect for the memory of the ancient "watchmen of the night," who, by combination of age, "rheumatiz," and being wrapped up in a blanket, were incapable of all "springy" movement, save that attached to their rattle. We have no regret at not living in the times when street illumination was so rare that an ignorant urchin, on hearing some eminent divine mentioned as a " shining light," expressed a strong wish that he might be "hung up at the end of their alley." We are conscious of possessing a natural dislike to "vis inertia," excepting in the case of a scandalizing tongue or a blood-thirsty flea. We have implicit faith in the great axle of "Endeavour," on which the wheels of Civilization, Commerce, Art, Science, and Fame must ever revolve. We would adopt the advice which Demosthenes gave touching the essentials of oratory, and write the motto, "Action, Action, Action," on every human brow. We consider this same honest, intelligent "Action" as the wholesome tonic stimulant which clears the skin, invigorates the frame, elevates the mind, fills the pocket, establishes the character, and helps more to keep his Satanic Majesty at bay, than all the Utopian moral bubbles and "good intentions" ever entertained by opium-eating dreamers. To "do" is the noblest verb active in the grammar of Life; but-oh! that terrifying, breaker-a-head word-but it is easily possible to "do "" too much; and then Common Sense, looking on as a Humane Society's man would at the heedless, bustling skater, twirling and piroueting with egotistical glee over cracked ice, shouts with loud alarm, "Dangerous!"

As it is difficult to trace the boundary line between reason and insanity, so it is frequently a delicate question regarding the certainty where “doing enough is accomplished, and "doing too much" commences. Yet, we maintain that the present conduct of business and pleasure offers such unmistakeable examples of the latter, that no perplexity exists in finding a verdict of guilty on that score against myriads of individuals, who imagine they are model men and women, and fulfilling their respective duties and positions in a most praiseworthy manner. Let us simply turn to our neighbour, Mr. Dalrymple, whose father, a respectable drysalter, left his son a fine business a few years since. The son, however, soon "cut" the old gentleman's jog-trot concern, and allied his undaunted energy and speculative talent to innumerable "companies" and various commercia undertakings, which so absorb his time and thought, that he flies about from one office to another; from this actuary to that secretary-now at the desk, then on the Exchange, now in deep consultation over a whispered bankruptcy; then despotic in prompt command respecting an invoice of indigo and cochineal; and so entirely given up to calculations, doubts, purposes, anxieties, and endea

vours, connected with the great world of money making, that his existence appears to be that of a man fastened to a rapidly turning mill-sail. He is up

at

seven o'clock in his country residence, Holly Lodge, about eighteen miles from town; dresses and shaves in a flurry, rushes down to his breakfast as though escaping from a fire, and swallows his toast and coffee with spasmodic haste, with his watch before him on the table. He bolts the mouthfuls without sparing a second to speak to his wife, who has hurried down after him, and would fain give him a domestic commission to execute in town, but the thing is impossible. "I shall not have a minute to spare to-day," he exclaims. Alas! it is the same every day-and he pockets his watch, seizes his hat and a parcel of papers, and strides through the hall with desperate steps, having six minutes to do a ten minutes' walk to the station. He has no leisure, of course, to take food until his return to dinner at seven P.M. Figures, facts, plans, and conferences hold him with Ogre power, until he goes through the four diurnal courses, and consumes at one meal, that which should be divided into three, producing, of course, a lethargic somnolency, from which he arouses only to think over how he shall arrange that affair with the Messrs. Dowbiggon to-morrow. Poor Mrs. Dalrymple and the little Dalrymples are of small earthly consequence to his earthly happiness. They are mere household appendages. He has no time to hear how Edward has got on with his Latin; he has no time to take an interest in Emily's attempt to sketch their house from the river bank; he has no time to admire the slippers which his wife is working for him. The children interfere with his abstruse thinking, and must be kept in the upper portion of the establishment while he is within the walls. Mrs. Dalrymple is secretly discontented and unhappy; wishing that her husband would give a little more of himself to home matters and affections; and take her occasionally to a Chiswick fete, or the opera. Strong symptoms are evident of Mr. Dalrymple's liver being seriously deranged, which considerably affects his temper; and strong suspicions are stirring respecting the visits of a military gentleman, who appears to take Holly Lodge in his drives pretty frequently; but, as the good natured neighbours observe: "Mr. Dalrymple is so entirely devoted to business, that he may naturally expect things at home to go wrong in some shape or other." There is much truth in this, and our secret opinion reluctantly concurs in the notion, that Mr. Dalrymple will painfully discover at no very remote period, that he has been "doing too much."

We can readily cite another palpable, and we unwillingly own, rather mortifying source of illustration to the title of this paper. We will touch on it gently, and not say all we could upon it. Our attention is turned in this instance to young ladies, in reference to their conduct towards young gentlemen. We were wont to entertain the Gothic notion that it is the man's place to woo the woman; and that delicate attentions and symptoms of devotion should emanate from the Damon, and not the Celia of pastoral and legitimate courtship; but we suppose an inverted order of things is now pervading society, and that it is the duty of Miss Rosalie and Miss Flora to let Mr. Augustus and Mr. Adolphus see that their whiskers and moustaches have made a powerful impression, and have such magnetic attractions, that, if seen on the Parade, at Brighton, or in "Decomposition-row," Hyde-park, Miss Rosalie and Miss Flora, under the modest influence of "pork-pie hats and nobbie little feathers," cannot resist paying voluntary and unsought homage to the gentlemen. Time was, when a young cavalier deemed it a blissful chance to have the opportunity of picking up a lady's fan or handkerchief, and thought it good service to watch around the walls that held some fair one's form, in hopes of gaining a kindly glance, or wave of the hand; but, alas! the case is strangely altered. We now see young maidens with (we are ashamed to write it) more colour in their cheeks and lips than God gave them. We see them with their persons so ostensibly

adorned by the combination of showy flowers, flaunting lace, kiss-curls, visible pearl powder, and “fast” mantles, that it is difficult to distinguish between the lady who belongs to a respectable family, and the questionable individual who would be perfectly "at home" in a casino polka. We see girls of tender age, ogling and leering, and indulging in those unmistakeable signs of unseemly precocity, which cannot fail to offend and repulse any man of delicate and just perception, though he may possibly amuse himself for a short time with the frivolous dolls who seem to open and shut their eyes for his express admiration. It is derogatory to see so many pairs of slippers and braces bestowed by single ladies on single gentlemen. It is not pleasant to perceive the insinuating and affected manner 'put on" by girls when " gentleman" enters the room. It is nothing unusual to observe an addional light in the eye, a fresh tone in the voice, and a general style of eager bearing in a woman, when a masculine individual of any available characteristics joins the feminine, social group. Attentions are offered him-flattering speeches are addressed-prosy “ badinage” indulged in, and a freedom and warmth of conversational license adopted, which must strike the dullest witness as something very distinguished from the indifferent and cool treatment bestowed on the whiskerless mortals around. May we venture to tell our young lady friends that this line of conduct is neither wholesome nor becoming. The man who is to be won by such un-Eve-like approaches is not worth the love of a true, high-hearted, sensitive woman. The feeling which exists in the heart of him who allows himself to be "caught" by the wooing which is "done" for him, differs as much from real, pure affection, as the midnight glare of a dancing saloon does from the soft, rich sunshine in a flowery valley. Lucky is the bride, if it is only a fool she has secured and not a brute; and sorry are we to observe such a tendency in fashionable young ladies to reverse the order of nature, and make very open offers of themselves to any conceited well-looking simpleton who may cross their path. We would advise them to remember that in nineteen cases out of twenty, the said simpleton is wise enough to create considerable mirth among his "fellows" at the club by bandying the young lady's name in terms of jest and ridicule, which perfectly explains that she is "doing a great deal too much."

Let us glance at another, and widely different phase of action; in which we frequently see a sad result from this same propensity. With all due respect for the profession we are about to mention; and with all gratitude for the unlimited amount of relief bestowed on mankind by that profession; yet it may truly be said, that medical men are very apt to fall into the mistake of " doing too much;" and that if coroners' inquests might return a just verdict on many who pass away under the treatment of the sons of Esculapius, we should find it couched in those few words. Cases come under every one's knowledge, where irritants, blisters, starvation, and bleeding are sedulously resorted to, when it has been painfully proved that soothing and nourishment were chiefly needed. A little "letting alone" would often be the height of wisdom and kindness; and a degree of judicious and watchful trust to Nature would be more advisable than a precipitate and determined course of routine administration; but, alas! when we "call in a doctor," he must do something of a decided and active character, before the patient is satisfied, or the patient's friends can feel dependence on the skill they have enlisted. Symptoms may be serious and perplexing; secret causes may produce mystifying developments; peculiar temperaments and constitutions may be so sensitive that a doubt may exist as to whether it would not be safer to permit the temporary existence of a light ailment, than to rashly employ agencies which may operate merely as torturing experiments; but something must be done. Physic is poured into the patient, which may increase, rather than alleviate, the derangement; blood is taken away when blood is needed; emetics are given when the poor stomach is already too reduced in tone and

power; and the "system" is diligently "lowered," while the over-wrought, fiery nerves are crying out for all the auxilliary aid and strength which they can get. We distinctly wish to impress on our readers that we deeply and widely appreciate the blessings bestowed by the medical faculty, as a body. No class of men exists more valuable to humanity-no skill, properly directed, is so precious as theirs; but we maintain, also, that no class of men commit more frightful errors, arising from blundering ignorance, or over zealous officiousness; and the most common and fatal among those errors consist in "doing too much."

Another painful illustration of our heading presents itself, as regards the labours of highly gifted authors. We have a clever young friend who declares that every man and woman of genius, after having given to the world a certain amount of great and enduring thought, ought to be prohibited from writing, and sent to some enchanted island, to live till they die, as the late Duke of Wellington's war-charger, "Copenhagen," did; without work. How well we remember with what delight and admiration we read Sir Walter Scott's marvellous conceptions, which had been poured forth while his brain was as vigorous and fresh as his own mountain torrents-his" Kennilworth," his " Ivanhoe," his "Antiquary,"-those glorious incarnations of History and Romance, which must ever charm the dullest of mankind. Why were we ever allowed to read his "Peveril of the Peak," his "Castle Dangerous," his "Count Robert of Paris," -those tame, dreary volumes, which made us sigh, and almost weep, as we closed them in weary disappointment? Why did not some kind friend inveigle the pen out of the "Wizard's" hand, before it had given to the cold and critical world the mournful evidence of a giant mind fading into feeble bitterness? Why was the gorgeous luminary of the North permitted to display to idle gazers the vaporous flicker of its latest shining? Poor Sir Walter! but he was only one of many. Look at the magnificent heart-firing bursts of Thomas Campbell, which fell from his lyre in its palmy days, like pearls and diamonds from the fairy's lips. Mark the power, the truth, the pathos, which fix them among England's choicest poesy-then turn to the pages which contain his last effusions of weak, childish, nerveless rhyme; and who, while dwelling on the last, will not exclaim, "Would that they had never been written." We could name more than one living author of blazoned repute, who appears to be verging on the confines of this precipice. We fancy we perceive a great change between their productions of ten or fifteen years since, and those now issuing under their names; and this perception sticks a thorn in our susceptible affection. We cannot bear to find our cherished favorites presenting us with a grain of wheat amid the bushel of chaff. We do not like to detect ourselves straining and struggling to discover the meaning of some occult, hyper-metaphysical paragraph. We are mortified at hearing unnumbered readers mention our idols' works as being "terribly spun out," or "nothing like what they used to be." We are induced to wish that we could act on our young friend's wish; if we could, certain it is that three or four wellknown individuals would be packed off, instanter, to feed on lotus leaves and wild honey on the Enchanted Island to save them from the dreaded and, we fear, impending fate of having the disc of their fame branded with the shadowing words, "Doing too much."

We frequently have these important syllables brought before us in the shape of "Divine music." There is something very irritating in the clashing and blowing, which many "leaders" and "conductors" think fit to employ in orchestral effect. We have known a delicious voice to be quite smothered by the brazen overpowering "accompaniment ;" and the finest treble passage of a "symphony" to be utterly lost in the riotous, bass preponderance. Young ladies, who are held as "wonderful" players, often excite our vexation on the same score. They will open a grand piano in a room some twenty feet square, and commence an assault and battery on it that seems an imitation of the reduc