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him home. He had wandered from his Eden, but has arrived at Heaven.

He tasted the bitterness of sin that he might know the luxury of forgiveness. He felt the weakness of his own strength that he might seek the support of an Almighty arm. He experienced the misery of transgression that he might know the price of righteousness, and be melted by redeeming love.

Now, eternal life has opened upon him ; the everlasting Rock is his foundation: the universe, with all its infinite height and depth, is to his spirit a home of love; CHRIST is his tried friend, and the living God his FATHER.

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READER : Do you love books ? — love them not for glory, or for lucre, but for themselves, with a pure heart, fervently, and because the images they present are beautiful, or grand, or holy ? And if you be this wor. shipper of literature, not from pedantry, or pride, or habit, or its convertibility into specie, but in spirit and in truth,' did you ever leave your quiet vale of Tempé for a time, and endeavor to congenialize with a segment of the fashionable world, convened at ball, or jam, soirée, or conversazione? While your genius was thus crystalizing in a new element, did you at first deem it both a pleasure and a duty, in assisting one Hebé to an additional lump of sugar for her coffee, to whisper with your most killing smile, 'Sweets to the sweet, fair Ophelia ;' to present to a second her fallen mouchoir (young ladies will drop their handker. chiefs in defiance of Mama) saying with a gentle exhalation, 'Oh! that I were a glove upon that hand;' to proffer your dextral digits to a third, with an effort after the fancied manner of my Lord Chesterfield, and inform her during the 'poetry of motion of the very singular and almost incredible fact, that her eye out-sparkles the diamond, and her cheek out-blooms the rose ;' and to hint to a fourth, with broken words and skilful hesitation, that you long, with a voiceless yearning for the exqui. sitatious felicitatiousness (as they say, or might say, off toward .sun

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down') of dividing her sorrows, and multiplying her joys?' After having fancied yourself particularly brilliant, did your rhetoric suddenly run dry, and did you become particularly weary of these aimless and fruitless colloquial coruscations, in which you had indulged perhaps because you had nothing else to say ; perhaps because Fashion has established the reign of this glittering inanity; or perhaps because you wished to meet anticipated coquetry with actual flirtation, and some mi. sogymist had told you this is the most melodious of all dialects to the female ear? Did

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then sit for a while, reflecting with just regret on your own share in extending the empire of heartlessness

- a realm already so wide, barren of all good, and fertile of all evil ? Did Conscience reproach your generosity, saying: 'Gay Lothario, perhaps those poor girls thought you were in earnest !' and sceptical Vanity add whips to your remorse, by suggesting, 'Stupid Malvolio! probably they cared not whether you were in earnest or no ?' Then, after attempting to attitudinize yourself into the envy of all the gentlemen, and admiration of all the ladies, just at the very moment when you thought you were regarded as a peach-cheeked Adonis, ripe, round and rosy, or better still, as a graceful Antinous, tall, pale, and splendid, did you suspect that a group of whisperers were “taking your name in vain,' and, in a paroxysm of disgust, stalk off like another Lara, swearing that man delights not you, nor woman neither ;' that you have not loved the world, nor the world you;' that you are among them, but not of them,' with various other bitter speeches of the Timonic or Byronic cast?

Did you next fall in with some grave gentleman, or rather some lady verging toward the uncertain age,' plain in face as in manners, and rich only in the jewels of the mind, and who therefore sat cold and neglected in a distant corner ? Did some chance allusion to a cherished passage of your own favorite author break the spell wherewith you were darkly bound, and launch your bark backward on the refluent stream of eager and delighted reminiscence ? On discovering that your studies, your tastes, your sentiments, your very minds were the same ; that you both had the breadth of intellect, the variety of cultivation, and the liberality of feeling to recognize and appreciate Genius under all his myriad forms; that, belonging to no literary sect, or school, or clique, or coterie, you both could admire and love at once the erratic Shakspeare, and the methodical Racine ; the meditative Wordsworth and the fiery Byron : did you vie long and earnestly with each other in freshening the remembrance of your happier years, and retracing the halfobliterated letters of the golden tablet, by bringing forth to light, like precious palimpsests, the treasures then garnered in your hearts? Did

? you recite together the passages that touched you in days of old, and dwell with enthusiasm on the sweet or ennobling pictures hung up in the halls of Fancy - a long and glorious series, from Hector to the Brothers Cheeryble, from Antigone to Fleur de Marie ? Forgetful of the youth, the wit, the beauty, and all the bright bewilderment around you, did you leave for a season the saloons of Fashion, garish with the glare of lamps, and wearisome with their scenes of mimicry, conceit and affec.

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VOL. XXV.

tation, to walk in spirit beneath the star-lit vault, and gaze with an earnest yet awful love on the moving figures of that everlasting temple,

•Where more than echoes talk along the walls;' the Walhalla of the world's great history, and of man's immortal mind? And did you thus discover, perhaps for the thousandth time, that that visionary world is, in itself, more real than the actual, and has a far stronger hold on the heart; and that however noble, brilliant and attrac. tive any modern assemblage, or the entire modern age may be, yet, compared with the princely trains that march from the one hundred and eighty ages of the past through the chambers of the mind, they are as insignificant as are the grandeur and beauty of St. Peter's dome, when paralleled with the breadth, the glow, and the glory of the firmament above ?

If you were ever in this or a like predicament, and experienced these or similar emotions, you can realize my feelings when, in the pages of a trashy novel, or dull discussion, I have lighted on some jewel from the olden casket, or some golden sentiment from the modern mine. At one mutilated passage, one fragment of expression, one bare allusive word, as at the signal.call of Roderick Dhu, an army of dormant memories springs up into visible being, and the landscape of fancy is re-peopled with a shining host. Instantly the mind and heart revert to the old and well-thumbed Delphin, the smirched Homer, the dog's-eared Virgil, and the tattered Ovid - which, through the medium of the dictionary, impressed upon them images, how lovely, how distinct, how ineffaceable ! Omnium Marcellorum meum pectus memoria obfudit.'

The boy again reclines under the old apple-tree, and amid the singing of birds, and sighing of the summer breeze, his merry laugh rings out at the misadventures of Quixotte, and the humors of Falstaff, or his frame shivers at the weird sisters in Macbeth, his heart leaps at the deliverance of the good Antonio, and his eyes run over at the double tragedy of Romeo and his sweet young Juliet. In the impotence of vain regret he repeats the line he loved so much even in boyhood :

O mihi præteritos referat si Jupiter anpos!' and appreciates in all its comprehensiveness the exquisite sentiment of Shenstone: “Heu! quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quàm vestri meminisse! Byron, by the way, has expanded this text into some very charming lines, but all their beauties united appear to me as nothing, when compared with the condensed and all-comprehensive eloquence of this appeal to the yearning spirit of a mourner. Observe the miracu. lous felicity of the language! Mark how many volumes are included in one short line !

Speaking of felicitous diction, there are some passages in the writings of Cicero, which seem by no means the language of the heart, but rather the dialect of the schools made perfect. Yet, though not the impulsive eloquence of nature, they are wrought up to such an exquisite finish, that I can scarce refrain from tears in their perusal. I know not how it happens here, and almost here only -- for assuredly there are many passages in other authors of more intense and touching

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beauty — but in reading some portions of Cicero's eulogy on Cæsar, in his oration for Marcellus, I am affected with a species of painful envy at the inimitable melody of language and elegance of thought. It seems so infinitely superior to any combination of words that I could possibly produce, that I feel inclined to throw aside my ineffectual pen, and wor. ship in silence the master-piece of art. Yet afterward, when the busy sprite in my brain has conjured up something which strikes my ear and heart as good in language or conception, I gaze upon it, like the whole vain tribe of authors, with a kind of paternal rapture, and exclaim with the Italian artist, . Sono pittore anch'io!'

But to return to my subject, which is, ' quotations.' Early in my classical neophycy — that word won't do — say apprenticeship, I remem. ber to have imagined the Roman authors the most amiable, if not the most honest of writers; for their favorite expression to signify the act of quoting was laudare, to praise which seemed to argue that they loved one another, and never cited from a book-wright without commending him. But a mere exoteric knowledge of the ancients soon convinced me that this amiable era must have been long anterior to the famous 'golden age,' since even then Virgil stole half his descriptive and metaphorical matériel from Homer, Hesiod, and Apollonius of Rhodes, without making a solitary acknowledgment, and Livy transplanted whole books of his warm-colored history from the impartial pages of Polybius, and never thanked him, nor even named him, except as 'quite a respectable author ! In this, I think, must have consisted that supposed unRoman peculiarity of style, which some of the ancient critics called the • Patavinity' of Livy, and which some modern lynxes have pretended that they too had detected.

In old times, however, citations were in general more prominently paraded, if not more extensively employed, than they now are. Among the Greeks, the most liberal quoter was Plutarch, whose treatises on morality and natural science are, at least in one half, directly and osten. sibly borrowed. It is astonishing, the number of authors whom he cites, and with whom we are assured from internal proof that he was perfectly familiar. In his discussions of various physical phenomena, which would provoke the smile of a modern naturalist by their immense masses of groundless hypothesis and ignorantly ingenious reasoning, he often adduces writers, of whose very existence without his evidence we should now have no knowledge. A tolerably extensive collection of the ethical beauties of the epic, tragic and comic poets of Greece may

be made from his preceptive essays.

The Greek and Roman fathers, together with the divines of the dark ages, were insatiable quoters. So, likewise, were some of the early English writers, particularly the polemical. Their method was to ac. cumulate all the authorities extant in favor of their positions, to cite all the objections ever urged against them by jew, infidel, or Christian; and then disprove those objections by other and equally extensive citations, occasionally furnishing an argument of their own. They resem. bled that famous luminary of Dutch jurisprudence, who settled all the civil cases brought before him, not by comparing the pounds, shillings and pence in, but by ascertaining the pounds, ounces, and drams of the

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