with dignity and safety, were intolerable, and to venture into the court on foot were at the risk of life and limb, owing to the furious crossdriving, to say nothing of a Scotch mist that was falling at the moment. But a bachelor's neck seems to be of no consequence to any body in particular; so ascertaining the whereabout of our coupé, which had cut out of the file, we made a desperate sortie, dashed across the court, escaped pulverization by a miracle, and rolled out of the royal precincts, resolved to make up upon our morning pillow for the midnight hours of our Ball at the Tuilleries.

NIGHT.

BY JOHN LOVE LAWRIE.

UPON the highest mountain's head
Thou liest like some dark dream,
And in the vale thy hand is spread
O'er rock, and tree, and stream;
And solemn sounds thou utterest,
For a mystic voice is thine,

And the mournful words thou mutterest
Loud swell, or soft decline.

How beautiful art thou, O Night!
Within thy pinions' shade

A thousand stars are twinkling bright,

Upon the lonely glade;

And the dreaming wave is hush'd to rest,

And the dew is on the flower,

And the zephyrs kiss the heaving breast
Of many a perfumed bower.

How wonderful art thou. O Night!
Thou liest dark and still,

And the sorrowing planets give no light
Upon the darkened hill;

And the languid ocean throweth

Its billows to the shore,

And the mountain streamlet goeth

With a dull and solemn roar.

How terrible art thou, O Night!
The winds are on the flood,
And the fiery planets in affright
Along their temple scud:
And the Thunder's voice is talking,
As he swoopeth o'er the tide,
And the sheeted rain is stalking
Along the mountain side!

And the ragged clouds are driven
Like smoke athwart the sky,

And far along the heaven

The lightning's glances fly:

Night cometh with its mantling shroud,

It cometh dark and lone;

With the hollow wind, and the inky cloud,

And the forest's swelling moan!

'Or making many books there is no end.'-SOLOMON.

-'Denique

Nullum est jam dictum, quod non dictum sit prius.'- TERENCE.

'Ridentur malè qui componunt carmina.'-HORACE.

Or the majority of deceased authors it may be said, (with due reverence,) They rest from their labors, and their works do follow them;' and of almost all the living professors of the 'black art,' the same peaceful termination to their toils may safely be predicted. Yet in spite of the inglorious fate of so many of my predecessors, and regardless of the chilling truths quoted at the head of this chapter, I have enlisted in the army of authors. It is not that I consider myself either a wit, a poet, or a philosopher. As for the first, I can laugh at a good joke; for the second, I can admire the poetry of others; and my philosophy enables me to bear misfortune without blaspheming, or even making a very frightful face. Although, in common with all who wield the mighty instrument of little men,' I possess my share of vanity, yet I rank among those who, in the words of GOETHE, listen to the song of another with more pleasure than to their own.

Why then do I mount the fame-bound vessel, which is already borne down by a crowd of argonauts to the very water's edge, and whose adventurous cruisers must pass through the blue Symplegades' of criticism, and gain, at best, but a meed of barren praise, with scarce a hope of winning the Golden Fleece?' First, because every body writes; and, detesting an unfashionable character, I must follow the multitude to do evil.' I have been reading, studying, and observing, in my manner, for the best part of half a life, and have just discovered that I am far behind the spirit of the times; that the age of study has departed, and the period of universal authorship commenced. Reversing the laws of supply and demand, and trampling on every principle of literary economy, all men are now producers, and none are consumers, save of their own crops.

Secondly. I may be modest overmuch, and possess all the qualities of wit, poet, and philosopher, in the happiest union, and richest abundance. I never injured mother Nature, and see not why she should have been less liberal to me than to others of her children. I behold all over the world thousands of authors, whose ideas are either good, but stolen, or original, but worthless. I cannot be more shallow than some of these fellows; and if the all-patronizing and most clearsighted public read or endure them, perhaps they may read or endure me. No one knows his capabilities till the hour of trial. many a gem,' etc.

Full

Thirdly. I am a predestinarian, and thinking myself fore-ordained to be an author, I should be loth to thwart the decrees of Providence. I have often, particularly when irritated, felt a preternatural sparkling dart from the eye, like a flash of ordnance from Parnassus, and have

frequently looked alternately on the sky and the earth, in a manner corresponding to the Shakspearian description of the poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling.' I have observed, too, that whenever I wear a collar, which is seldom, it is very troublesome, and looks so aristocratic; it has an invincible propensity to turn downward, à la Byron; clearly indicating a poetic temperament. Yes! I can hardly be mistaken in all these symptoms of Apollo's presence. The Delian god has forced his bridle in my mouth, and his goad in my side; and like those of the Cumaan sibyl,

Et pectus anhelum,

Et rabie fera corda tument.'

The inspiration grows strong within me, and I must write. Therefore I make the venture; and as every one, were the disguise torn away, would be found to think himself the first of mundane beings, so, till I see proof to the contrary, I shall believe myself a capital writer, and cradle my vanity in the sweet delusion that the friends of the Old Knick.' look with almost as much avidity for the crudities of POLYGON, as they do for the mellow maturity of the inimitable CRAYON.

I have adopted my multangular title, to express the character of my efforts, which will be exercised on matters connected with criticism, morality, education, manners, poetry, and myself, together with a plentiful sprinkling of nonsense, just to make the whole agreeable. I would write connected essays, or perhaps publish a book in extenso, on some fresh and interesting topic, such as the anatomy of flies, or the flood of Noah, had not a few little matters of my own shattered the uniformity of my feelings, and a very diversified course of study and of life, imparted to my mind something of an impulsive and erratic movement.

'Something too much of this,' quoth Fastidiosus. I hate egotism.' So do I, Sir, I assure you. It is always in my way. So practise your own sermon, stranger. Forget yourself awhile, and listen to me.

POLYGON.

-Vos exemplaria clara,

Nocturnâ versate manu, versate diurnâ.' HORACE.

-

My library is small, but thanks to a love of reading, inspired in me so early that I almost think it innate, I have read most of the worthies in the lighter branches of literature; I have read them, and however unskilfully arranged, they are there-in my mind. I have domesticated their delightful images, and, like tropical birds caged in an ungenial climate, their rich plumage and ever-ringing notes deceive me of many a grief, and often transform the cheerlessness and silence of winter into the varied hues and warbling melodies of spring. Ah! would they could always abide ! Would that the spirit, worn and ruffled by bickerings and broils, might always fly to Shakspeare for relief, and rest beneath the warm-colored wings of that bird of paradise! But, all-potent as he was, his most ethereal fancies cannot change the harsh nature of man into kindness, or purchase a remission of our being's hard law, the primeval sentence, to procure by daily labor our daily bread. How happy would be the poor foragers in the

fields of poesy, could the recital of a gem from the 'Romeo' discharge a tavern-bill, or a stanza of Spenser sate the cravings of a cormorant tailor! And how reasonable would it be thus to pay for supplying the wants of the body, by a draught on the bank of souls! How abundantly then would 'poor Goldsmith' have fared! When, feetweary and heart-sick, the penniless wanderer had reached a peasanthamlet, or the chateau of some grand Seigneur,' the narration of some striking incident in the history of Rome, or the paraphrase of some splendid passage from Rome's great poet, would have procured him a kindlier greeting, a more savory supper, and a warmer bed.

This, however, may be deemed by practical men a mere Utopian dream; well enough, perhaps, for green Arcadia, and a pastoral age, but wholly unsuited to the flesh-and-blood substantialities of prosaic life. Well, I grant it. For I too have some common-sense principles, and no more expect to see mankind regulate all their affairs by romantic moonshine, or poetic star-light, than any money-changer in the nation. Let money be now, as it has ever been, the necessary medium for the supply of our wants. Be it that the visions of bards have never been a present reality-possessing only an imaginary existence, and that in the preterite tense. Still it remains as solid and useful a fact as any thing which can be seen and handled, that these sweet creations of unbridled fancy are of great and permanent advantage to mankind; as much so as the construction of canals, the invention of steam, or any other improvement which these practical men stare at and glorify so much. Why? Because they contribute to render life endurable; because they afford unspeakable delight to many when steeped to the very lips in poverty and decay; because, in short, they are like a firmament of stars, which, whether noticed and honored, or neglected and spurned, continually shed, directly or by reflection, a lovely light upon a race wandering in darkness and grovelling in the mire. I myself am one among the majority-that is to say, I am but poorly satisfied with myself, either in memory or in prospect. My little aspirations, whether wise or unwise, whether by my own fault or that of others, have successively sunk in disappointment. But I have become familiar with the heroes of the pen; their bright paintings are before my eyes; their immortal music is in my ears; their noble thoughts are with me in all my daily walks; and in such company I am happy. The Dii Majores' of Helicon are around me. I hear their golden words; they converse in different dialects; yet their language is all one the language of the heart. I attempt not to class them. I know not which is Jupiter, or which Apollo, or which Mercury. The niceties of rank and precedence among them I leave for the cold rules of critics to determine; for me they are gods- all gods; and I thank them for administering to the pleasures of a feeble mortal.

Yes! blessed be ye, forever blessed, ye elect of our race, ye chosen of humanity, who have opened fountains of healing for the heart-sick, and the spirit-broken; fountains which will not, like the pool of Bethesda, renovate the exhausted frame, but will 'minister to a mind diseased,' and reërect the prostrate energies of the soul! Blessed be ye, forever blessed, because when sudden darkness overshadowed the landscape of my youth, your tranquil light beamed through the cold clouds, and made my night more sweet and quiet

than the day. Ye are worthy of all worship; and may he who would pluck one leaf from your laurels, find it clinging to his own forehead, like a burning-iron, imprinting there a brand of indelible disgrace! Blessed be ye, grave Historians, who have lifted the mists of time from the ocean of the past, and revealed it to our eyes, all covered with gallant sails, and strewed, alas! with many a noble wreck!—a scene replete with tenderest impulses and noblest sympathy. Blessed be ye, sententious Moralists, who have planted buoys along that dangerous coast, to warn us of the rocks and shoals near which our vessels glide. Blessed be ye, above all, sweet Poets, thrice blessed forever, who have thrown the sunshine of your fancies over the stormy waves, and from the fairy islands of enchanted song sent many a summer breeze, more fragrant than the spicy gales of Araby the blest, making old Ocean smile!'

The word book has for me an indescribable charm, a talismanic power. It comes to my ear and heart laden with associations of delight. If ever an unpleasing remembrance be awakened by the name, it is that I have so often forsaken an unfailing friend for the falsehood and folly of the world. Books are the long-sought, longdreamed-of philosopher's stone. They have the quality of transmuting this iron world into gold. When properly used, they give health, youth, and beauty, to our better and abiding part. They are the grand apothecaries' shop for diseased souls. They contain medicaments for every affliction- balm for every wound. The long array of bodily ills, so pathetically recounted by Milton's angel to our weeping progenitor, has throughout its counterparts in the mind. And in the medicine-chest of literature there are cures for all. Has Disappointment cropped the flowers of Hope? Here is Seneca, with many a wholesome restorative whereby thy mind may recover at least its firmness if not its elasticity. Hast thou 'ingorged greedily and without restraint' of the world's unwholesome viands, till thy sated palate yearns for a plainer diet? I will show thee a more healthy regimen; fruits fresh-gathered from the gardens of Hesperus, and goblets crowned with choicest liquor from the sparkling Heliconian fount. Eat; they are delicious as the apples of love, mentioned in the Song of Songs which is Solomon's. Drink; these waters will refresh thy soul, and after them thy sleep shall be airy light, from pure digestion bred.' They will be to thee, after thy long sensual trance, like 'hock and soda-water' to the lip of a waker from a night's debauch.

Ah! how sorrowfully was Byron-hapless lord of the lyre ! — mistaken, when he penned the line:

'Man, being reasonable, must get drunk!"

Rather say, man, being reasonable, must drink the pure spirituous wine, the true Falernian, which has grown stronger, and clearer, and mellower, for ages. Champaigne is a bubble, a flash-vapidity, and an aching head. This strengthens while it exalts. The most copious libation produces no crapula, no heart-burn. Here are no lees. This cup will soothe like opium, exhilarate like ether, and purge like hellebore. Has Cupid waved his purple wings above thy couch, shedding sweet and subtle poison on thy slumbers? Here is