fining himself to the recital of his first impressions, the indignant remonstrance against injury and neglect, or the outward manifestation of inward grief and pain, the execution is always such as does him credit. But when these and other disturbing causes' conspire, the effect may be supposed to approach very nearly the level of his most exalted conceptions.

6

Now the full tide of harmony arrests our ears and steps. Shall I describe to thee, in language at once technical and familiar, both what thou seest and hearest, and that which is unseen and unheard? Well, then; listen. The youthful artist and his nurse are improvising a varied and elaborate harmony, (doloroso,) in the natural key, the tones of which are few, but the harmony at once wild and wonderful. At intervals (were the music written) you might read along the score these words in the Italian language: Diminuendo, a poco laudanum.' The startling injunction not to spare your breath, embraced in the abbreviated terms' mezzo-forte,' and 'forte,' would also accompany every measure. The magnanimous duo lavish an amount of vocal sweetness upon the neighborhood which, were it properly distributed, might suffice for the vocal necessities of the whole solar system. At the distance of half-a-mile the attentive listener need not lose a single note. You will observe two distinct tempos - one for baby, and one for nurse — are beat upon drums by under-graduates; one of whom varies his rôle, in a 'pp' passage by the subdued bump, bump, bump, of a fall downstairs, which passage' is immediately succeeded by a Grand Finale, tutti, fortissimo, with unprecedented modulations into remote and comparatively unknown keys, and a miraculous occasional return to the original one; the whole being relieved, at suitable intervals, by an obligato, skilfully executed upon the trumpet,' alternating with the shovel and tongs, which, under the influence of the prevalent inspiration, contribute their sweetest notes to swell the tide of harmony.

But we cannot have good music, like the poor, always with us.' A gradual'stilling of the elements' is now taking place, and whom am I permitted to name as the happy instrument?' None other than the faithful nurse, erst Prima Donna. Ah! wondrous woman! A kind of recitative, half-sung, half-spoken, all original, combined with artistic treatment of the refractory infant, is accomplishing the seeming impossibility. Note her language, as you follow the music! [Spoken:] See here, Tommy! Tommy dump? [Sings, Presto, vivace.] Up he goes! [False motions.] Up he goes! U-u-u-u-up. [Goes up.] he goes! [Spoken:] oh oh oh-oh-(!) What Tommy kying for? Hey? [Savagely:] S'all Molly cut he head off?. [Playfully:] 0-0-0-0-off goes Tommy's head! [Sings:] U--he goes in a ballo-o-o-o-n! [Spoken:] Now baby's gone whe-e-e-re 's baby? Oop (!) [Enticingly:] Won't baby tiss Molly The-c-e-re! I knew he would! The-e-e-re!" The reason I do not represent to you her action is, that it is not to be imitated or described by a mere mortal.

u --- P

But listen! There is a different strain. The mother sings, now. How sweet is her voice, and plaintive! There is a something in it makes one sad to hear. How strange, that old familiar air' should sound so mournfully! It is no pleasure to stay longer.

How pleasant is this place! The kind trees bless us with all they have to give, a cooling shade; and their still whisperings with the gentle breeze come down to us faintly and solemnly. Often, when I am sitting here, shapes, natural and spiritual, seem to pass before me ; the former youthful, sometimes, but oftener grave and old. They are alike welcome and I have sometimes found myself unconsciously addressing them as though they were real which, in some sense they may be.

The spirit is upon me. How thronged is this erst deserted scene! Come here, dear boy, and listen to words of wisdom, from one long past the season of youth. (It seems but yesterday he began, as thou, to struggle for himself.) Ah! some time you will not wonder, as now you wonder, at the earnestness of your father, your mother's tears, when they would have persuaded you to stay with them yet longer. How earnestly they besought you not to yield so readily to delusive arguments with which a youthful imagination, and a manly though untried heart, were urging you into the race and battle of life! When thou didst bid them farewell, O sanguine youth! thou wert leaving much happiness behind, more perhaps, than thou shalt find again this side the grave.

From a life of ease and indulgence, thou art come upon one of turmoil of ambitious struggle - perhaps of final disappointment: and what if success prove unsatisfying, the beacon an illusory one! Ah! doubly illusory, twice unsatisfying, in the light that beams from the hearth-stone of your early home!

He passes on. I thought my language, in its earnestness, had checked him for a moment; but doubtless this was too fond a fancy. And why should I detain so brave a youth, anxious for all the good this world affords, laughing at the promise of inevitable misery!

ON the brink of yon cold, deathly river, stands a weary traveller, aged and trembling. With painful step, and slow, has he toiled thus far, and it seems as he would enter the waters. My soul yearns to comfort him, and to stay his steps.

Trembling Pilgrim on life's barren waste! Dark is the tide that would arrest thy course. Why fearest thou not to plunge? What sustains thee, now, O aged one! what wilt thou find on the thither shore?

As he fades from sight, and the scene recedes, the chill wind from off that icy stream doth bring for answer one word only: In the distance, now HEAVEN it seems now HOME!

JACQUES MAURICE.

A SUMMER DAY.

THE circling sun from his covert of night
Is soaring up the sky,

And flooding the earth with a ruddy light,
And gilding the clouds on high.

Through pendent branches and clustering leaves
The winds go sighing away,

And swaying and bending the mossy trees,
And fanning the summer's day.

Sitting alone in the forest shade,

I watch the mottled clouds that sail
Across the sky, in streamers clad,
Like ships before a gale.

The night comes on with a stealthy pace,
The sun-beams are upward thrown;
The winged hours have run their race,
And the summer's day has flown,

LITERARY NOTICES.

THE POETRY AND MYSTERY OF DREAMS. BY CHARLES G. LELAND. In one volume: pp. 271. Philadelphia: E. H. BUTLER AND COMPANY.

We begin at once by saying, that shadowy as at first thought may be deemed the subject of this very handsome and well-prepared volume, as expressed by its title, it will be sought after and consulted by a very large number of interested readers. Even those who 'pshaw!' at dreams, and their denotements, will be among the first to examine its pages, for correla tive demonstration of the purport of their own 'visions of the night.' 'Dreams,' remarks our author, 'are no longer for intelligent minds, sources of hope or fear, but they still wanton through the halls of the spirit as of old, though the horn and ivory gates which were once supposed to determine their truth or falsehood, have long since been broken away. And they are still recorded as mysterious or pleasing fantasies, still narrated at the breakfast-table, and still quoted by lovers, as affording involuntary illustrations of a passion which dares not declare itself in more direct terms. And there are many, especially among the young, who, although devoid of superstition, are still curious to know what this or that dream is said to signify, yet who very properly shrink from consulting those popular 'dream-books,' which are often not only replete with vulgarity, but also fail to give those explanations which were accepted as authentic in days when even the wisest placed full faith in the art of interpreting dreams.' 'There are very few,` continues Mr. LELAND in his 'Introduction,' 'who are not occasionally interested in the mysterious, uncontrollable operations of the mind during slumber. Dreams are the novels which we read when asleep, and it is in these wild romances that the sternest and gravest foes of the Imagination and Fantastic in art and literature read their reproof written legibly by NATURE herself. And when we reflect on the subtle manner in which the subtlest and most occult workings of the mind are at times entangled with our dreams, becoming (so to speak) half-revealed, and appearing to the observer who never investigates the wondrous world within, like a veritable gleam from a spirit-world above, it does not appear strange that there have existed in all ages myriads who believed with religious faith that supernatural intimations were permitted to even the humblest during sleep.'

However this may be, it is quite certain that our ingenious and tasteful author has brought together a large and interesting collection of DreamExemplifications, with cognate poetical illustrations from numerous popular writers, foreign and native, and among the latter several of his own, which are in no wise inferior to the best in the volume. The invocation, 'To Dream-Land,' from the pen of W. B. HART, appropriately opens the work :

'On! blessed Land of Dreams,

Soft memories and blissful hours are thine;
Strange moon-lit fountains and fitful gleams
Surround thy shrine.

'Dreams for the weary one,

Who through a long and toilsome day must weep,
Come with sweet music breathing in their tone,
In balmy sleep.

'Dreams for the broken-hearted;

Glad angel-tones arise from the dim past,
Telling of hours that have long since departed,
Too bright to last.

'Dreams for the stained of crime;

Thoughts of their innocent and early years,
Come rushing o'er them from the past of time,
With bitter tears.

'Dreams, too, for those who mourn;

Of that blest realm which knows not care or pain,

From whence the dead to vision-land return,
We meet again.

'Dreams unto us are given,

To soothe the weary and the heart-oppressed;

Oh! realm of visions, poised 'twixt earth and heaven,
We call thee blest!"

'The Anvil,' to dream of hammering upon which, according to APOMAZOR, presages success and honor in spite of opposition and enmity,' affords Mr. LELAND a theme for the following spirited lines: