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phantasms of the brain, conjured up by the wizard Moon and the sorceress Night, are beyond the jurisdiction of travellers, painters, or allegorists. No meddling Ithuriel starts from amid their shadows to withdraw the veil of fancy and show me the dowdy features of truth; thither, therefore, does my imagination delight to escape from this benumbing world of matter and reality; so gladly abandoning itself to the wild abstractions of dreams, that I pursue them long after I am awake, and when they melt into daylight, I can almost sit down, like Caliban, and cry to sleep again.

END OF VOL. I.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY S. AND R. BENTLEY,

Dorset Street.

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