in thus vividly shadowing forth the skeleton in his house, and upon his hearth, Mr. de Quincey claimed the assent of every feeling reader to his assertion, that Lamb's cup of earthly sorrow was full enough, to excuse many more than he could be taxed with, of "those half-crazy eccentricities in which a constant load of secret affliction (such, I mean, as must not be explained to the world) is apt to discharge itself."* There is such a thing as what the always forcible author of The Brides' Tragedy calls

though the speaker is warned, by one distressed at such wild and whirling words,

Let not your thoughts find instruments of mirth
So on the shore where reason has been wrecked,
To lay them in your brains along with grief;
For grief and laughter, mingled in the skull,
Oft boil to madness.†

And, too literally, that way madness lies, where Lamb's musings lay. One of the most curious traits displayed in Dr. Kane's book of Arctic adventure, it has been remarked, consists in the occasional forced gaiety and levity of the writer,-gaiety which cannot be mistaken for anything else than what it is the only possible refuge from utter despondency. "He laughз at scars, not because he has never felt a wound, but because he has felt so many that laughter is for the time his only resource against weeping over them." There is a certain kind of trifling, as Henry Mackenzie says, in which a mind not much at ease can sometimes indulge itself: one feels an escape, as it were, from the heart, and is fain to take up with lighter company: "it is like the theft of a truant boy, who goes to play for a few minutes while his master is asleep, and throws the chiding for his escapade upon futurity."§ "Your mocking tone is very fitting at such a time," says Mrs. Forester to the priest, at a serious crisis in Mr. Shirley Brooks's tale of Aspen Court; and his answer to the lady is a prayer that she may never know the state in which it is comfort to mock oneself and every created thing around one. Richard Savage, in Mr. Whitehead's story of his life, is displeased at the levity of expression adopted by an erring friend; but adds: "I have since known and have practised a lightness of phrase when my heart has been heavy indeed."¶ After-experiences made him but too conversant with

-all that frantic mirth-that rush

Of desperate gaiety, which they
Who never felt how pain's excess
Can break out thus, call happiness.

Rousseau declares gaiety to be a very equivocal sign indeed of happiness:

* Autobiography of an English Opium-eater: Recollections of Charles Lamb. † Dramatic Scenes and Fragments, by Thomas Lovell Beddoes: Erminia Abbandonata.

Arctic Exploration; The Second Grinnell Expedition in Search of Sir John Franklin. Aspen Court, ch. lviii.

§ Julia de Roubigné, letter xxxiii.

Richard Savage, ch. xv.

"Un homme gai n'est souvent qu'un infortuné qui cherche à donner le change aux autres et à s'étourdir lui-même." Typical of such is

Southey's picture of the unhappy king, whose

-countenance was troubled, and his speech

Like that of one whose tongue to light discourse
At fits constrain'd, betrays a heart disturb'd.†

Cowper bids a correspondent to whom he had sent a tragi-comic ditty,
take for granted as a general rule that he, the poet, is remarkably sad
whenever he seems remarkably merry. The effort we make to get rid
of a load, he reminds him, is usually violent in proportion to the weight
of it. And Cowper refers to having seen at Sadler's Wells a tight little
fellow dancing with a fat man upon his shoulders: to those who looked
at him the dancer seemed insensible of the incumbrance, but if a physician
had felt his pulse when the feat was over, it is to be supposed he would
have found the effect of the performance there. Perhaps you remem-
ber the Undertakers' dance in the Rehearsal, and which they perform in
crape hatbands and black cloaks, to the tune of Hob or Nob;' one of
the sprightliest airs in the world. Such is my fiddling and such is my
dancing." And such is life, with a good many of the lively ones:
The sad must wear the jester's mask;

And surely 'tis the hardest task

That can the sad employ.§

6

THE TEACHER.

BY ISIDORE G. ASCHER.

SAD and silent with the fancies

That oppressed his heart and brain,

Sat the busy student conning

Wisdom's folios in vain;

Till the Universe seemed a riddle,
And his life a load of pain.

Speak," he said, "O time-worn teachers,
Callous Science, joyless Art,
Wherefore do ye map and measure
Life in one unmeaning chart?
Cumbrous terms and wordy maxims
Preach no comfort to the heart."

But the volumes, dead and hoary
As a naked, wintry tree-

When the limbs that give no shelter
Look upon us mournfully-
On their surface bore no beauty,
In their heart no melody.

* Emile, livre iv.

Roderick, the Last of the Goths, § 10.

Cowper to Rev. W. Unwin: Letters, No. 222.

§ Quillinan's Poems.

VOL. LVIII.

"Speak!" he cried, "I woo'd your presence,
To infold me with delight,
That ye might ingraft upon me

Truths to make life's journey bright,
Yet I shun your cruel pages,

Like a thief, who shuns the light."

Then, upon the shadowy distance,
Loomed a being, decked in grace,
Like a flash of golden sunlight
Falling on a ruinous place,
Yet familiar as the presence
Of a dear, beloved face.

And her guise together blended
Earth below and heaven above,
"And her presence, like an angel,

O'er his world did seem to move,
Then her name, he asked in rapture,
And she answered, "I am Love;-

"I am Love, the holiest teacher
That doth sanctify earth's sod,
Fashioned after Eve and Adam,
And the crowning work of God!
To imbue a dormant purpose

With true life, am I bestowed;

"What is incomplete or fruitless

I may stamp with power divine!
So that Wisdom, Art, and Science
By my light may grow and shine,
Till thy tasks are edged and hallowed
With a beauty that is mine."

Then, like waves of summer lightning,
Winged flames that flash and dart,
Calming all the fervid hours

That on Twilight's wing depart,
Thrills of grateful, blessèd rapture
Coursed along his brain and heart:

And Love breathed upon his darkness,
Like a sweet, ambrosial air,
Dews of solace, till her preaching
Seemed the echo of a prayer,
Folding in the hush of comfort

Every querulous thought of care.

And his life, endowed with love-light,
Yielded joys, a honeyed store,
Sweeping all the mazy doubtings
From his heart for evermore,
And gay flowers of truth and fancy
Blossomed from the dusty lore!

E

THE ARISTOCRAT AND THE PAUPER.

FROM THE SWEDISH OF UNCLE ADAM.

V.

THE FRIENDS.

FIFTEEN years had passed, and of the persons of whom I have spoken before, the young men had become old, and the children had grown into young men. Time glides imperceptibly along, notwithstanding all the trials and the cares which it produces, but which it also happily helps to drown. And Time had done its work with the various individuals whom I have already introduced to my readers.

Major Pistolwärd was now a feeble old man, the fire of youth was almost extinguished, but now and then a spark would fly from the yet smouldering furnace, from that soul where once had sprung so many noble thoughts, though as frequently many violent and quickly-excited passions. His sister, too, had passed into the vale of years, and no longer stood godmother to little girls. She also was much more quiet and peaceful than formerly, but had still retained her kind, affectionate heart.

Little Ludwig was now a handsome young man; he had greatly improved, and was the sole joy of both the old people. When a letter came from Ludwig, old Pistolwärd seemed to gain renewed life, and he rejoiced over his child, for he looked upon him as such, and his sister spun linen the whole year through for her favourite. Ludwig had studied theology, and had just been ordained.

The letter which brought the news arrived on a lovely summer evening, when the aged major, with his pipe in his mouth, was seated before his door; and what joy there was in the house! Miss Emerentia, who in general was not accustomed to impart her pleasurable feelings or her little annoyances to the servants, on this occasion could not withstand relating to the maids, as soon as she had an opportunity, that Mr. Ludwig was now a clergyman. The major was even more childish than his sister, for he forthwith summoned Petter Anders to him, and cried :

"Hark ye! Petter Anders! What do you think? Ludwig has taken orders, and is now a minister! He is a first-rate fellow-God bless him! Here is something to buy a little tobacco, Petter Anders! Go into the kitchen, and let them give you a comfortable dram."

Ludwig had only been a few years at the Academy, but he had taken his degree, and had been ordained. He was a young man of whom no one spoke; he lived a very secluded life, quite absorbed in his books. His small chamber was order itself; everything was clean and elegant, although simple to the utmost degree, for the major did not possess a fortune, nor would he have given him too much money to spend if he had been well off; Ludwig would have been obliged to practise economy even if he had not been naturally inclined to it. He had one single friend, whose character was entirely opposite to his own. Those who think that the most delicate of connexions-namely, friendship—is formed

by sympathy, are much mistaken. Friendship is like a web, which consists of threads that do not all run parallel, but in which the warp and the woof cross each other.

From this cause we seldom see two men of the same disposition and tastes who are more to each other than mere acquaintances. Ludwig and his friend had different characters, and loved each other with all the warmth of youthful hearts. Their very first meeting in this world had bound them to each other; they had risked their lives together, one had borne injustice for the other, and had borne it without murmuring; in a a word, Ludwig's college friend was Adolf Nordenhjelm.

Adolf Nordenhjelm was somewhat of an impetuous youth; he had head and energy enough to carry out whatever he set his mind upon; he had a strong will, and loved to rule wherever he could, but he was unlike his father in many respects, for he was accessible to friendship, love, and even to folly itself. He could account for his actions, and weigh them exactly; but he seldom did so, because it was troublesome, therefore he became hasty, and frequently committed errors against les bienséances. He often offended when he was most anxious to please, for people are generally judged by their manners rather than by their inward feelings; the soul, the mind, the sentiments which prompt to action, are often as a sealed book to others, which, when opened, is found transcribed with inexplicable characters. There are many who have not learned more than one alphabet by which to read their fellow-creatures, and if they meet with a person whose character happens to be written in a strange alphabet, they fancy that it is not worth while deciphering; they then follow the example of the monks of the middle ages, who used to say, "Græca sunt non leguntur," and thus skip over the contents of the book, judging of it only by the binding.

Ludwig, on the contrary, was naturally mild, patient, and amiable, and his education had smoothed down every unevenness, every hardness from his disposition. He was guided by an old man whose heart was as pure as that of a child, and Ludwig early learned to love his adopted father, not only for his innate benevolence and worth, but also for the originality of his manners. Miss Emerentia was his second Mentor; she influenced him as only a mother can influence her child; she guided him with that all-sacrificing love which betrays itself in every look, in every trifle, in every word, which gives up so much and expects so little.

Ludwig owed to the contrast between his two benefactors that he had become what he was a kind, benevolent man, distinguished for his modesty and the mildness of his manners.

Adolf wanted just such a friend, and he strongly attached himself to Ludwig, who on his side encouraged an intimacy between Adolf and himself, because he felt that he might often again be able to draw him back from the edge of a dangerous precipice.