This misery was however dissipated, after some very severe shocks to my vanity; which came, I am inclined to think, in very good season, since the hallucination I observed continued to exist in those about me,-indeed, in some extreme cases, I never saw the notion of self-importance eradicated. Howbeit I looked with a good deal of complacency upon the errors I had escaped; and was content, with Burns, to refer them all to the agency of some mysterious being, whose favors I would, for my erring comrades, most devoutly supplicate:

"O, wad some power the giftie gie them,

To see themsels as others see them!
It wad frae monie a blunder free them,
And foolish notion."

Few months had passed by, when I met in one of the great commercial thoroughfares, an old acquaintance, Kate Mortonat the first sight, my mind ran back to school-boy days-to the old Brighton church-the corner pew-the little chinchilla hat, with its green ribbon in summer, and the crimson in winter; and not the hat only, but the face-flushed, dimpled, coquettish; she was the 'Squire's daughter, and I ever had a propensity, since I was a boy, to reverence aristocracy; and never was it more fully displayed than in the yearning, sidelong looks I used to cast at the 'Squire's pew.

But those reflections, called up, as I have penned them, met a saddening reverse, when I met the Brighton belle-a member of the famed boarding school.

"How d'ye do, Mr. Brainard," said she, mincing her words as if in an agony of utterance, and not deigning further acknowledgment, for, she was admired-undone by society.-Oh! relentless fashion, how thou hurriest on thy votaries to the vortex of social ruin! Oh! Kate! misled, beguiled by the allurements of a shining exterior-flattery devoured thee, and thou wert consumed. Simplicity yielded to conceit; a little world of selfishness, thou didst build about thee-thyself its god; a little world of fashion-thyself its fondest votary; a little world of friends thyself its cynosure!

Oh, Kate! would that thou wert as in times gone by-so chaste, open, frank, kind, lovely. Alas! alas! how does human weakness make our life-a tale told by an idiot

"Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing!"

I remember when we were both honest-when buoyant with the elasticity of our young hearts, we roved together, and gathered berries in the old wood that skirted her father's grounds; and now -now naturalness has fled that supercilious air-that mock dignity that studied step-that courting of admiration-I scorn them all!

I have observed among other foibles, an anxiety existing among a large class of individuals, to become distinguished for something-no matter what it may be. They try one thing, and failing of success, another. Thus, are they ever lost in pursuit of phantoms of no conceivable utility, and a curse to real dignity of character. Some are the fops, i. e. the gentlemen-irritabile genus! and from attentive observations, I have remarked that such are fashionable in their exterior; a cane-an a la mode hat, and long hair, constitute their equipments. That long hair suggests a little whimsey, written, I believe, by Shenstone

“Adieu, ye bobs! ye bags! give place!

Full bottoms come instead:

Good L-d! to see the various ways
Of dressing a calf's head!"

Some are the politicians-parum sapientes-some the most expert card players; others have the largest lady acquaintance-astonishing ground for superiority! yet he who can touch his hat to half a dozen ladies in walking C-street, is, to say the least, one of the elité. Trahit sua quemque voluptas.'

Others are metaphysicians, and it was really curious for me to observe with what acuteness they detected little flaws in a discourse, and loved to reason upon conceptions and fancies. I used to observe them from my humble seat, gazing with a fixedness of attention upon the venerable Dr. F-, in his famous trinity argument, till finally the brute preponderated, and sinking into a gentle sleep, they dreamed of reasonings—a posteriori.

Such loved? to read Day on the Will,' and discourse upon his differences with the logical Dr. T-, with all the ardor and enthusiasm of the most self-willed devotee of the new school system. Poor Drs. Wood and Dana-how they suffered! would that they might trace back some of their depravity to Adam, for surely they had enough laid at their door.

I must not omit to mention one, and there are many such, who, all blooming with hope, had entered this arena for improvement, with me; who was of an enthusiastic mind, and looked fondly forward to honor, and a name in life; who hoped to carve out for himself a place of distinction, grounding his desires upon improvement here. Such an one, pecuniary misfortune trampled on; his sensitiveness shrunk from asking aid, and he did not rise again.

I saw him afterward; mercantile affairs engrossed his attentionthe mere mechanical drudgery of the counting-room; but this was not the idol of his heart. He pined for that which mortal arm could not give him. He spake to me of his old college haunts he inquired after his comrades, and as he heard of them

one by one receiving the reward of intellectual toil, and mental strife, I saw a drop gathering in his eye, and turned away his thoughts.

"Strongest minds are often those,

Of whom the busy world hears least,"

says Wordsworth; and Beattie tells us

"Many a soul sublime

By Poverty's unconquerable bar,

In life's low vale remote has pined alone,

Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown!"

Both are true.

There was another whom I had known for years. Noble, high-minded, generous, he won the esteem of all. Of a calm, placid, ingenuous disposition, and an intellect of strength and energy, he faithfully subdued its capacities to the routine here presented for fulfillment. No vain ambition goaded him on; he courted no ephemeral applause, but sought only to fit himself for future usefulness.

The world before him seemed to hold out no honored cup of pleasure for his enjoyment, but he studiously husbanded his resources for whatever might befall him in life. Friends smiled on his acquirements, and he may have striven for their satisfaction; yes, when the ills of life were thronging on him, when his relaxed energies courted repose, their cheers may have incited-may have stung him with the consciousness that his vigor was wasting. Howbeit he battled with the weakness of the flesh, until it conquered him.

The strength of manhood, the flush and vigor of youth, strove beside him-how could he see his weakness?-how could he feel it? The fire of his eye flashed on, as the tottering step betrayed him; and only in the solitude of his chamber, would the mournful, oh! thrice mournful truth flash upon him,-that he was consuming himself. Friends were not by, to see that languid smile, to hear those close respirations, else why-how those incitements to effort, which came ever and anon, like oil to the fire, raging at his vitals. The chill of collegiate authority, diffusing itself over him as over the wanton throng, grated harshly on his sensitive, diseased mind.

I can now tell the sequel of his story. He was successful in his every effort; and while his cheek was flushed with the calm satisfaction of having pleased those who watched him with friendly solicitude, disease glowed there, at its triumph. And in a year, in a distant, secluded village, away from his home,-a few friends, endeared by his amiable character, followed him to the grave.

How few of the thronging, busy world know that one, who, had he lived, would have graved his name high on his country's annals, has passed away like the autumn leaf! What a leveller is Death!

"The star that glitters on the bier,

Can only say, Nobility lies here."

Kind reader, had you seen him, had you known him, the tear would glisten on your cheek, as you read his name,

Charles St. John Eldredge.

But time is passing, and time is more to me than it was when I was 'roguish Tom Brainard.' The clock ticks faster than it did in boyhood. I know the hours roll sooner round; I feel the months slipping under my feet. I lay my hand upon the new year, and welcome him with mirth. I change my date with all the enthusiasm I did when a boy; but while I smile in recurrence to past scenes, the year is old; and I weep as I sport with his silver locks, for I know he will soon be in his grave!

THE SONG OF THE STARS.

"When the morning stars sang together."

OH, 'tis a glorious, solemn sight,

When wandering forth at dead of night,
We view the vault of the cloudless sky,
And all the starry host on high,

And the slumbering earth and the rolling sea,
Beneath that glittering canopy.

"Twas such a scene that met my eye

As forth I went 'neath the evening sky:
The heavens above were veiled in white,
With a robe of pale and misty light;
And the stars from thrones of changeless blue,
Seemed looking down and gazing through.

"Tis said, that by each radiant star,
Wide as creation's glories are,
Honor and praise are nightly given

To Him who kindled those lamps of heaven,
As the morning stars once swelled abroad

The praise of their Creator God;

And the new-born earth to the joyful sky,
Echoed the heavenly minstrelsy.

I listened to catch the melodious strains,
That rolled along the ethereal plains;
For those bright orbs seemed marching by,
Moved by celestial harmony.

When sudden that veil was rolled away,-
Each star shot forth a brighter ray,-
And Silence hushed the whispering breeze,
And brooded o'er the dark blue seas;
Voiceless was now the murmuring rill,
The thousand forest leaves were still,
And Nature, silent, waiting stood
In presence of all nature's God.

When lo, a sweet seraphic strain,

From the farthest rank of that heavenly train,
First faintly low,-then softly clear,-
Came swelling richly on the ear.
For a gentle, mildly-beaming star,
That shot its radiance from afar,
Had thus the heavenly song begun,—
"Glory and praise to the Holy One."
And a fiery star from his sky-built throne,
Flaming with zenith splendors down,
Answered with full majestic tone-
"Glory and praise to the Holy One."
While all the glittering hosts above,
That on in bright procession move,
Far as the thrilling accents ran,
The anthem of the skies began,

And rolled around the Eternal Throne-
"Glory and praise to the Holy One."

They ceased, the voice of praise was still,
Save from the distant echoing hill,—

Back to its native skies was given

The softened melody of Heaven.

Silence returned;-nor beast, nor bird,

From their deep and Heaven-charmed melody stirred;

- Obedient to its Maker's will,

Earth's thousand voices all were still;
And a holy calm in the breathing air
Silently taught me that God was there.

But now the tuneful skies again,
Awoke their glad melodious strain :
Soft murmurs rose from the distant west,
Like the hymn of infant spirits blest;

The east, with its bright and glittering throng,
Echoed a clearer and louder song;

It rolled along the northern sky,

In sounds of glorious majesty ;