clouds, through which the clear sunlight could seldom pene trate. Rousseau's character was originally different from Byron's, and so were the causes which brought him to his peculiar cast of feeling. He was a dreamy and abstracted enthusiast, dwelling amid the wild creations of his inventive imagination, and forever in pursuit of some ideal image of loveliness, that constantly eluded his grasp-some ignis fatuus, that lured but to leave. The creatures of earth could not but dissatisfy him, and hence "His mind Had grown suspicion's sanctuary, and chose 'Gainst which he raged with fury strange and blind." Life lost for him its relish; he became indeed the "apostle of affliction," and dragged out a weary, fretting existence, amid baffled hopes and ruined expectations. It is evident, that the writer whom we first quoted does not allude to the kind of misanthropy, displayed in the two first of the characters which we have attempted in some measure to analyse. Such men as Richard and Iago would now find but small room to bustle in. In the present age, though they might be at heart equally ready to adopt the means best adapted to the accomplishment of their ends, they could never carry them out into action. Or, if they did, dethronement and the block would be the fate of the one, and the other be deemed a fair candidate for the gallows. He refers exclusively to that state of mind which we see so strongly developed in Byron and Rousseau. We have said, that it almost universally belongs to persons of strong sensibilities and tender feelings and now proceed to state the reasons of its present prevalence. It may, we think, be in a great measure traced to the existing state of society. Every thing is now constrained and artificial. The author writes less from the free impulse of nature, than for the more subordinate purposes of gaining a livelihood, or eliciting the applause of his contemporaries. He collects a mass of materials, that determine the nature and size of his structure, which oftener resembles a modern saloon than one of those glorious monuments of art, which for mer ages have bequeathed to us in their most durable and beautifully proportioned styles of architecture. And so it is in every other profession. There is at this time nothing of the simplicity of savage life, or of the wild excitement of the earlier periods of the world. The gay and gorgeous creations of romance have melted away, like mists before the morning sun, and we can think of them only as beautiful dreams. All is now changed; we can see nothing as it really is; a thick veil is thrown over thing which conceals its real nature, sometimes even from the closest observers. And hence it is, that those who come forward under such auspices, with all the glowing freshness of youth, find few in the great world that can sympathize with their raptures, and shrink back within themselves, to nourish feelings of distrust and coldness to their kind. Many also, forgetting that what was accomplished by genius in a former age, mediocrity can now in most cases effect; and, mistaking the warm aspirations peculiar to their time of life, for indications of the higher orders of talent, are apt to imagine, when engaged on a favorite theme, that they have struck out something original; and the afterconviction, that the ground has been preoccupied and left, comes like a chilling frost upon their spirits. The influence of early disappointment of any sort, on a young man of an ardent and aspiring temperament, is ever withering enough; and more particularly so, when it is a disappointment in an object, for the attainment of which there was a reasonable degree of probability. Philosophy has no antidote to lull him into forgetfulness; and if it had, it would be unfelt and unheeded. For it is an affliction, over which such an one loves to brood to very sickness, though every fresh recollection bring with it a new addition to his misery. And if, perchance, his mind should recover its wonted tranquillity, ever and anon "there will come a token like a scorpion's sting," for a time to throw it back into its former gloominess. Oh, there is a blighting mortification in the idea that the heart has yielded, when it should have burst-that the fire has been quenched that should have dried our life-blood-that the storm has passed over, and we have been content to save our life on the wreck of the goodly vessel to which we had trusted. And for what?-To prolong a miserable existence; to have all the feelings harrowed up into agony; to realize that the past is nothing but a tissue of melancholy remembrances, and that the future must be a series of sad disappointments ;these are the certain attendants on him who has tasked his powers too heavily, and finds at last their comparative weakness. The general tone of the popular literature of the day, too, favors the extension of the mental malady of which we are treating. Göethe, Voltaire, Rousseau, Gibbon, and Lord Byron, exert at this moment an astonishing power over the reading part of the community, and through them on every class of society. And in what are termed the lighter styles of writing, Tom Moore's early Poetical Works, Vivian Grey, and more particularly the Pelham Novels,-can compete with, if not surpass in influence, the splendid creations of the gigantic genius of Scott! GEOFFREY LA TOUCHE. PASSAGES FROM A DIARY. BY CHARLES SHERRY. Feb. 16th.-WHAT an absurd thing it is to write a Diary; to chronicle one's incoming and outgoing, getting up and lying down, breakfast and dinner, tea and supper. It is pleasant, however, to keep an occasional record of many passages of life, which have given us present amusement, or promise pleasure in their recollection. It is peculiarly gratifying to our self-love, to meet with some pages of an old journal or scrapbook, the circumstances of whose composition we perfectly remember, and compare them with what we should now feel or write on the same subjects. Our opinions and sentiments change as imperceptibly as our chirographies. We love to look over our old opinions and sentiments, and the more feeble and unmeaning they are, the better we are pleased with them. Like the down of darkness,' our self-complacency is smoothed till it smiles. 19th. Called upon Mr. Teufel. It is singular, what strange compositions have been put together, and christened men. My friend most certainly falls within the circle of humanity; but a very few more peculiarities had excluded him. He is one of the most capricious and whimsical of beings, altogether inconsistent and inexplicable. He has a striking disregard of truth, and tells the most palpable fables unblushingly. He declares himself a large contributor to the reviews: when his highest efforts have been paragraphs for the papers. Every kind of slander, tittle-tattle, tale and embellishment, drops from his lips with the utmost sweetness and sincerity. I was amused with the information picked up from Mr. Teufel. He told me he had it from the best authority, that Forrest was to appear on his benefit-night in the character of Paul Pry; that at Washington, the authorship of "The Toadstool' was attributed to Mr. Eaton, of the War Department; and that there was considerable talent in the last number of the American Monthly.' 20th.-Sat down after dinner to finish an article for the Collegian. Mr. Lamb called in, to get rid of his own afternoon, and to spoil mine. He is the very prince of bores. The vagrant act ought certainly to be put into stricter execution. For my own part, I think time-killing should be made a capital crime; or at least punishable with a long imprisonment. Petty larceny is an act of virtue compared with it. Mr. Lamb stole three hours from me, and I can obtain no redress. If he had lifted my pocket handkerchief, I could have rid the community of his presence for a six-month. 21st.-Heard of the elopement of Miss Sniffle. Time was, when it would have gone to my heart; but it is singular how men and manners alter! Once I should have sworn to die a bachelor, if I had imagined this lady contemplated a change of state; but now it only leads me to think that I have as good a right to be married as she. I have just been told that the gentleman-lover is called Smith. If I had been intending to assume another name, as a mere matter of taste, I should have preferred Sherry to Smith. However, madam, just as you please! 23d.-Mr. insisted on my presenting some of his verses to the CLUB. What can the fellow mean ? Does he think I have no conscience? The rejection of his specimen poem, half as long as the Æneid, would not that satisfy him? 25th. A malicious acquaintance, who takes pleasure in such things, has been at the trouble of collecting all the criti cisms on the Collegian, and sending them to me per mail. The budget, saving the postage, was a very acceptable present, and put me in excellent spirits. It is pleasant to be praised and quoted by men of sense, but how much more agreeable to be abused or slighted by blockheads! 27th.-I have just received from a friend, to whom we have been before much indebted, the following enigma, containing an answer to that in the first number of the Collegian. Am pleased to weave a silken thread into my own cotton tissue, though it may be very much out of place. ENIGMA. It came unheard, and darkness veiled its birth, Such was its fate-and thus, without a stain, A Born in a flower, and dying in A CLOUD. THE SUMMONED. "Ferdinand of Spain died in an awful manner. He had ordered the brothers Carvajal to be precipitated from a rock, on suspicion of murder; the brothers protested against the sentence, and claimed the privilege of a defence, but in vain. Upon which they summoned him to appear before the tribunal of God, at the end of a month. In thirty days from that time, the monarch died." THE destiny is on thee, king, thy web of life is spun, Thy royal tale is fitly told, thy race is fitly run; The sceptre crumbles in thy hand, the crown upon thy head, A spirit tone, presaging woe, is on the midnight air, In every sound an oracle, that tells thee thou must die! Go, monarch, clad in humble weeds, before the altar bow; |