end for which he made his collection seems doubtful to me, although he certainly studied, and I am inclined to hope for a better purpose, than those whom I have had the painful occasion to mention the wretched race of memorizers.

I think a vast collection of books is what might almost be called, a magnificent sight; and that I desire to possess one, I do not deny, inasmuch as "some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested; that is, some books are to be read only in parts, others to be read, but not curiously, and some few to be read wholly and with diligence and attention—some books also, may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others, but that would be only in the less important arguments, and the meaner sort of books; else distilled books are like common distilled waters, flashy things."

SEPT. 12th.-Once again have I visited the rock of dear memory and past exalted thought,-again have I had my feelings of pleasure renewed,-again sympathized with nature sought to admire her variety to adore her grandeur. I have one wish, among many others less urgent, with respect to this rock. I desire to be upon its beak when the lightnings play among the mountains, and when the thunders reverberate through the numberless valleys.

How pleasing does dwell association on those dark mountains, and in those gay valleys? I associate the howling of the wolf, with the nutting of the squirrel, and the tangling brier, which has rolled me down the steep mountain side. I have a cane I cut on the side of this mountain, to aid me in climbing and avoiding the sharp and shelving rocks-no treasure could buy that cane-for it constitutes a too pleasant link in the chain of

life to be removed. Oh, memory! do thou dwell in such scenes? in such joyous hours dwell oft and long.

OCTOBER 1st.-It seems that with some judgment I have chosen my man, for to-day the fellow played a doubtful trick on me, as borrowing some of my books without leave. However, I have said nothing to him about it; for he who engages a known rascal in his service, must expect such trifling. But, I will take occasion at some time to show him, that I am conscious of the very marked liberty he has taken; with an assurance, nevertheless, that I felt it a tribute paid to his cleverness, aye, and a reward for his laboring for me, in discovering the peculiarities of human nature.

This man discloses to me, matter of something more importance than the worth of a heap of such trash as he possessed himself. He goes everywhere, I believe, and knows everything, and is a man I value in his way. Hermit as I am, he lays bare human passion, opens the arcanum of human motive to my view as if he were a divinity.

To-day he tells me that he had been, and not long since, constantly in the society of a young man of the most decided genius, who was thwarted in his efforts by stern and unrelenting poverty. He repeated the word poverty, with that impressive, yet hypocritical tone of eloquence, which made me see to the bottom of his heart. He proceeded to say: "Poverty, poverty, marred and maddened him." "And where is he now?" said I. "He sleeps," said he, "in that portion of the churchyard, parcelled out with a sparing hand to the stranger; and not a twig did the pampered old sexton stick in the sod, on that day which harrowed up my feelings-that stormy burial day. The rich soap boiler's grave was as yet unturfed; and,

moreover, a blazing fire was on the sexton's hearth.

Wonder

not, then, that a stranger's grave, which is equivalent to an untenanted one, should receive no simple mark to show that it were not some villain's-it were not the favorite dog of some influential man. Nothing indicated the spot where the head laid that displayed to your eye, in its expansive beauty, the imaginative and the intellectual man.'

"How did the young man die ?" said I, anxious to know more of him. "Raving like a madman with mania-a-potu." On saying this, he cast his eyes to the ground in painful thought, and then went on to say, "I saw him in life-I saw him in death; and when I looked on him in death, and thought of him in life, would you think it, I denied that what I saw was what it was. I could not believe those lips on which I had seen sit the sweetest smile I ever saw-a smile given to friendship and those he loved, and those whom he admired, and who, in turn, admired him; and of the latter there were many. Those lips which had silenced the caviller, and so often curled in scorn at the action which was wont to degrade the man."

He thought for a moment, and then proceeded. "Sir! I am not the right sort of a man; but a demon could not have looked on that face, smiling as it was, even in death, without a smile in turn, sadly flaying on his own face:

"Where every god did seem to set his seal,

To give the world assurance of a man."

None could look upon that face, with the creatures of memory hurrying through his mind, as through my own at that time, without doubting death-without possessing the mysterious uncertainty as to his own existence; and without placing his

hand on his heart to perceive if it were still beating with the power of life."

"About death, I have, any how, a strange idea. I could never fully impress it on myself, that those I once knew well were dead, though years may have passed since they have gone to the grave. My mind, by my reasoning power, is convinced that there is death. Passion, aye life itself, teaches my mind that there is death. But my heart revolts at the idea it refuses to believe such a thing, and we are insane for a period after the death of any endeared object; and, we can only be convinced when the affections of the heart give way to the convictions of the mind. Sir, I never, until this occasion, when the consciousness of the reality of his state was impressed on my mind, had felt that choking, smothering feeling -that leaping of the full heart into the mouth."

He dwelt now listlessly in thought; I interrupted it by asking, "and poverty brought this on him?” "It did," said he. Then," said I, "did you, for I doubt your feelings, as I claim the right to question the actions of every man-did you, who have given yourself such a character to me, feel sorrow at his departure." "Convinced," said he, "from what I know of you, short time as I have known you, that it is useless to attempt to hide genuine feeling from you, I therefore tell you, and with all sincerity, that that young man, though poor, had ability enough, to have raised him to any place that he might have aspired. He was, despite his strength of mind, however inclined to despair-and the most superior men are known to be so.

"I had been myself ruined, for soonafter, taking a false step, I was lost to the regard of honorable men; and by degrees, I

learned like my deceiver to deceive-like my seducer to seduce; and it was not long before it became a pleasure—a truly savage pleasure, to victimize the thoughtless and the generous minded. On this young man, therefore, I placed my ruin-mark. I commenced my devilish work by sympathizing with him, in his despairing moments and, sir, you know how deadly is sympathy, and especially in the dark moments of despair. As well as the sweet balm of Gilead, is this sympathy, the baneful hemlock. That is the enchanted castle which we build up for another's destruction that was the magic of my power, and by degrees, I drew him to a place where he might drown his temporary sorrow. I sought to make him known in intimacy with the blear-eyed publican-and to affiliate him with the loungers of the hell. I succeeded, because I had coiled myself around his heart. Now, then, it was I, who gave that noble young man to the worm, and the undistinguished grave. Judge me not a villain though, for perhaps before we finally part, I may tell you of other men, considered better by the world, who have been more ignoble--who have done darker deeds than this. View my situation rightly too, I beseech you,

before you form a judgment that may be harsh.

"I was an easy, for I was an early dupe to a villain--I am despised by some-called wretch by others. And I am now, as others you see daily strolling the streets, dependent on their wit, their humor, and at times, their impertinence for an existence. Every face is not, as physiognomists tell us, an index to the heart-neither index permanent, or one for the time-and every fair face does not indicate a virtuous heart-nor every smile, a glad one. Vice can so polish the features, and often give a