Nay, philosophers who have contemplated the universe, and investigated the laws of nature, have sufficiently proved, by the widely different results to which their discoveries have led, that, even in considering the universe, they have seen different sides of the picture.

Happiest he, whose well-regulated mind, or natural cheerfulness of disposition, induces him to look with a lenient eye on the errors, and with a placid composure on the misfortunes, which, as long as he inhabits the earth, he will be sure to encounter at every turn. His glance loves to rest on that which is fair and pleasant; and whatever he does not find in unison with his own benevolence and good humour, he softens down into a shade less sombre. To him it is of little consequence what side of the picture presents itself. He can look at either with complacency, and find beauty in both.

HISTORY OF THE RISE AND PROGRESS

OF A SMALL VOLUME OF POEMS,

WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF THEIR DECLINE AND FALL.

- Ha! who art thou? What art thou?
The sun of phantasy,

Whose world's o' the air, to mortal vision else
Impalpable."

SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

THE history of a small volume of miscellaneous poems, from its first conception to its final completion, from its cradle to its grave, may afford materials for a curious chapter, illustrative of the phenomena of mind. "Many a time and oft" have we wondered within ourselves what on earth could ever tempt a young or middle-aged man gravely to print one hundred and fifty or two hundred pages, consisting of detached pieces of Rhyme. We have said to ourselves, What possible advantages does the author of this publication expect to arise out of it? In these days, when the power of versifying is almost

as common as that of eating or walking, can he anticipate, that a little book in blue, yellow, red, or green boards, with a neat title-page, and a modest preface, and a very tolerable collection of pretty thoughts, under the heads of "Lines," "Stanzas," " Sonnets," "Canzonets," "Sere"Frag

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nades," " Songs," " Impromptus," or

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ments," can he, by any chance, anticipate that such a little book will fill his coffers with money, or crown his brow with laurels ? Upon what principle is it that he voluntarily undergoes all the whips and scorns" of Authorship, "the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely," the suppressed smile of his friends as often as his three-and-sixpenny volume comes across their memory, the open ridicule of his foes, who, as soon as they discover that their enemy "hath written a book," proceed to make him aware of what Hamlet meant when he spoke of

"The spurns

Which patient merit of the unworthy takes?”

Why and wherefore has he brought down upon his own head so great a load of misery? We have revolved this question a thousand times, and after keeping it long—alta mente reposta―we can answer it satisfactorily only on the supposition, that most of these miscellaneous-poem-publishing authors go on step by step, from little to little,

until, upon awaking some morning, they see a book upon the breakfast-table, and blush to find it their own. Let us for a moment look a little deeper into the heart of this mystery, and if possible, trace the rise and progress of the phenomenon.

A stripling about the age of sixteen, who has been hitherto rather short and dumpy, suddenly finds himself shoot out like an asparagus, and all at once become portentously long and thin. His mother and sisters, with every possible expedition, proceed to let out reefs from the cuffs of his coat, and the legs of his trowsers; but to little purpose, for the sleeves of the one arrive only a short way below the elbows, and the trowsers, as if their legs had been cut away instead of lengthened, terminate in a very ludicrous and Highland fashion somewhere about the knees. There is at length no alternative; recourse must be had to a skilful artist by mortals called a tailor, and in his new suit of clothes, behold! our hero is instantaneously and to his own considerable surprise, a young man! Adieu at once to marbles and paper kites; the king's birth-day fades into obscurity, and blind-man's-buff becomes undignified! At dancing parties he is considered a very eligible partner, and ladies quiz him upon the subject of his being in love. No wonder; for being naturally susceptible, and having read a considerable number of novels, and not a few ro

mances, he seldom falls asleep before he has vowed eternal fidelity to some Adelaide, Clara, or Matilda. Then, in a most unaccountable manner, he suddenly conceives the idea of taking a solitary walk a walk away into the country where there are some green trees, a good way off the dust of the high road; and a stream tolerably clear, only that there is a large dyeing establishment on its banks; and a hill or two in the back ground, trying to look as picturesque as they can; and fields from which he can hear what he knows to be the voice of birds, without enquiring too curiously whether it be only the chirping of the sparrow, or the warbling of the nightingale.

Under the influence of sights and sounds so harmonious, he puts his hand first into his breeches' pocket, and takes out a silver pencil, and then into his coat pocket, and takes out a memorandum-book, in which there are several blank leaves. To one of those leaves the youthful poet entrusts his maiden effusion- a sonnet perhaps, or " Lines to," and then with a trembling thrill restores the memorandum-book to its accustomed place, and, with a more than ordinary flush upon his countenance, returns home to dinner. For weeks - it may be for months he is like the little girl described by Montgomery, who "had a secret of her own," because she had discovered a bird's nest. He knows that he has written poetry, but