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deter most men of genius and sensibility from the conflict. They will be more disposed to leave the gory arena to the Quarterly gladiators alone, and seek, in the bosom of retirement, that quiet happiness which seldom visited the heart of the unhappy Keats.

Literary biography furnishes no particular account of Herbert Knowles; all we know of him is, that he was a contemplative young man, who resided in the vicinity, and was accustomed to frequent the churchyard of Richmond. At what period he was born, how he lived, or when he died we know not. Like Grant, the author of the most celebrated Oxford prize poem ever produced, he seems to have thrown all his energies into one masterly effort, achieved the victory, and disappeared forever. His genius does not indeed glow with the fervour of a Milton, but the pathos and power of his thoughts and imagery are touching, because they are true. The "Churchyard" is an energetic epitome of the vanity of human hopes and wishes. To what should a tabernacle be built in that solemn realm of death? To ambition? oh, no! he is

"To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey."

To beauty? no! To pride? wherefore? To him nothing is or can be allowed, but

"The long windingsheet and the fringe of the shroud."

To riches? alas, nothing remains to them but

"The tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid."

To love in that awful hour of silence,

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'Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted and none have replied."

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Thus proving everything vain and unsatisfactory, he resolves to build the three tabernacles to Hope, Faith, and the Lamb of the Sacrifice.

The conception of this poem is admirable, and its execution is remarkable for simplicity of style, and for strength and beauty of expression. It remains a durable monument to the memory of a name which, after all, is the glorious ultimatum of incessant aspirations, struggles, and trials. On a rational review of the history of literature, we become more and more persuaded that he who devotes the energies of his mind, and the treasures of his knowledge, to the acquirement merely of fame, is misguided and unwise. While a satisfactory proportion of just applause follows the steady and pleasurable exercise of the cultivated intellect, life glides on peacefully, and literature largely contributes to its enjoyment; but the restlessness of ambition, the quenchless thirst of vanity, the one unvarying desire to acquire notoriety at any expense, inevitably subject the wretched devotee to innumerable disappointments and vexations. Amid the comforts of a well spent life, it is pleasant to anticipate the applause of posterity; but during the tumult of persecution, and in the dust of the garret, the honours that may be awarded to our ashes, are empty as “ air, thin air."

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.

4

UNDER auspicious circumstances, it is a pleasant thing

To make a tour and take a whirl,

To learn bon ton and see the worl❜

for our admiration of novel beauties counteracts the numberless vexations to which we are exposed, and, while contemplating the glories of the past, we almost forget the sufferings of the present. The petty, though provoking annoyances of gendarmie and sub-perfectures too often awaken us from our dreams of other times, but the intensity of delight soon effaces these evils from the mind. It is exhilarating to visit strange places; imaginary pictures are displayed before living realities, and we turn and turn from the one to the other, pleased alike with the vraisemblance and the contrast. The longing curiosity, which has haunted our dreams for years, is gratified in its full extent; and, though this gratification is often associated with melancholy feelings, yet the enthusiastic consciousness that we tread upon holy ground-ground sanctified by the blood of patriots and martyrs-fills the heart with the glory of departed ages, and guides us to a proud participation in the honours of the dead. The venerable abodes of those who have passed away to the land of dreams, vividly suggest remem

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brances of their lives and deeds; and every ruin inspires our hearts with high resolves to follow the pathway of the wise and good. There is a mentor in every trace of a good man's footsteps; there is a high reward for all who reverence the memory and imitate the example which he leaves behind. The ancient chamber, where the just man dwelt, is more eloquent in its ruin than the most seraphic sublimity that ever fell from the lips of Bordaloue. The thoughts of our minds insensibly blend with the hopes and fears, the troubles and the trials of other beings in other times; and, as we tread the same ground which once they trod, it behoves us to feel the influence of their example, and direct our course toward the same mansion of rest which has been allotted to them. Not less should we be deterred from evil deeds, and the indulgence of evil passions, by beholding the dilapidated abodes of those who were a curse to their species, and a dishonour to the name of man. The sensitive heart will feel alike the influence of the penates and the demons. Though the persons have disappeared, yet their spectres are present still; and we can almost hear the prayer of the holy and the anathema of the unjust man ring through the antique dwellings where we tread with reverential awe or thrilling abhorrence.

The first peculiar object which attracts the stranger's attention in Paris is the immense height of the houses; the next is the suspension of the lamps, at the altitude of nearly forty feet, across the streets; and the third is the disgusting filth that everywhere prevails. The shadows of the night fell darkly around us ere we reached the London Hotel; but the streaming lights of the lamps displayed the perils of our path, and our olfactory nerves suffered a thousand mar

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tyrdoms ere we crossed the boulevard des Italiens, and entered the echoing court of our sojourning place. Hence we were ushered up a long flight of stairs, and through countless corridors, which guided us at last, to the exalted apartments apportioned to our occupancy. Perceiving, on our entrance, that the floors were tiled, without even an apology for a carpet, we felt the April weather too sensitively without fire; but, when this was called for, the French chambermaid stared as if we had asked a miracle, until the request was repeated, when she left the room muttering something about fogs, rosbif, and Monsieur Anglais. The word comfort is outlawed among the French; it belongs not to their vocabulary; it appertains not to their speech; it is an alien to their hearts!-So that their tiles are finely polished, and their beds well adorned, and their rooms hung round with mirrors, it matters not if the lattices are half closed in a chilly day, or if an ague should follow the discomfort of a night's unrest. We were sufficiently acquainted with the vexations of travelling, however, to avoid the latter evil; and we awoke, in the morning, relieved from the fatigues of our journey, and prepared to enjoy the novelty of our new situation.

Coffee is a sine qua non among the French; and they may well boast of its excellence, for he who has partaken this delicious beverage in Paris, would scarcely endure the mockery among any other people. To drink French coffee from Severes porcelain is indeed a luxury.

Our breakfast had just concluded, when John Howard Payne, our distinguished countryman called upon me. He had received my introductory letters on the preceding