ment of poetic enchantments! but such a blissful portion never must be mine' It is only at long intervals that a faint and transitory gleam dawns on the mind; and then alas, too soon, "Clouds rise,

the vision's past!"

It is so seldom that I am sufficiently recovered to have it in my power to experience such pleasures; and then to have the cup of enjoyment dashed from my lips as soon as it is presented, by the dominion of base and worldly cares,-'tis insufferable; for the time that I am to remain here, trouble me no more with your-letters of business. I will not answer them; I will have one month devoted to pure, independent, aye and innocent gratifications, "mirth that after no repenting draws."

"A month has past away: Autumn is no more nothing has been achieved; nothing has been gained, neither health, spirits, nor literary energy!

The life of a person of morbid sensibility may be termed a perpetual warfare. Every day, every night, every hour presents trials of his fortitude and his patience, more than equal to those which, to an

individual less tremblingly alive, are caused by the dangers and hardships of a campaign.

It is observed by Rousseau, that " our greatest virtues depend on trifling precautions." The gift of acute sensibility becomes a blessing or a curse according to the degree of auspicious fortune, and of fortitude and discretion by which it is accompanied. It is difficult, most difficult, to preserve and cherish the temperament of genius; for it is utterly impossible for any one to exist to rapturous impressions alone. As a late poet expresses it,

"The heart that is soonest alive to the flowers,

Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns."

I have often wished that in certain society, and in certain situations, it were possible to fall into a state of sleep or temporary insensibility

While I write, a violent tempest is desolating the groves; the air is filled with leaves; the glorious hues of the forest are fast fading away. I have just sketch'd a farewell in the following feeble stanzas. I should leave my retirement with deep regret, did it not afford rather a better opportunity for executing some of my improvements. But, go where I may, my heart remains fixed, true as the magnet, on the solitary shores of Loch;

on

the roar of the cataract, the scream of the falcon, the waving canopy of the row dusky forests, the

desolate grandeur of the wild rocks and boundless heath, to which, for a while, I am about to bid adieu.

1.

They are gone, the bright visions for ever are past;
The forests are drear, and the skies overcast ;-
The inchantments of Autumn are vanish'd, and now
The snow mists have covered the grey mountain's brow.

2.

There were hours of inchantment, whose heavenly light, 'Mid the tempests of life shall ne'er fade from my sight; Whose influence, by memory cherish'd, shall bloom, And the dark hours of midnight with transport illume.

3.

There were forms of inchantmeut that floated around,
Mid the golden-hued groves, or the leaf-covered ground:
These forms will revive in the dark winter day,
And enliven with magical beauty my way.

4.

There was music divine, when the redbreast at morn His wild notes renew'd on his leaf-dropping thorn; There was fragrance most soothing that fill'd the calm

air

From the dark wreaths of foliage that lay here and there.

5.

There was joy most inchanting, when morning awoke Through the vapours of frost that dissolved into smoke;

When the horn of the hunter reechoed afar,
And the purple rays rested on Loch Vennachar.

6.

brain

But, a weight on my breast, and a fire in my
The high soaring raptures of fancy restrain;
They are gone, but they flourish in memory still,
The joys of the wild wood and heath cover'd hill."

M. A. R.

N° LXXXVII.

Lives of Literary Men abundant in Materials for

Biography.

то THE

RUMINATOR.

NEVER, Surely, was there any remark more unfounded than that the lives of literary men cannot afford materials for biography. This assertion has been already refuted by the RUMINATOR. But an expression in one of the three epistolary fragments of M. A. R. seems to me to place the subject in rather a new point of view, and very forcibly to expose the fallacy of this exploded opinion.

"The life of a person of morbid sensibility may be termed a PERPETUAL WARFARE. Every day, every night, every hour, presents trials of his patience and fortitude more than equal to those which, to an individual less tremblingly alive, are caused by the dangers and hardships of a campaign.”

The gift of exquisite sensibility generally proves a blessing or a curse, according as it is regulated. But, endow a human being with a degree of morbid irritability sufficiently acute, and no rules, no caution can save him; the bodily frame perishes under the restless dominion of the mind; and the mind is then also overthrown by the influence of bodily suf