thee! Thy dominion is so extensive, thy power so great, thine offices so varied, that I can find no beginning to my lucubrations, and I might write to eternity before I should be able to put on record all that thou art. But I possess thee not. Ah, 'tis this that pinches my thoughts. If I were as I once was, I might, and could, write a chapter which all would admire. There should be sluices of wit in it, and oceans of humour. But now, a poor, seedy scrag like myself-in truth, I cannot be witty or funny for sorrow. I would laugh at my poverty, and make others laugh, but the memory of gone riches rises up before me, and I am obliged to be dull.

Money! Devil! Fiend! Aid me, ye guardian spirits of adjectives-inspire me with epithets immense! 'Tis useless! My theme is greater than my powers! Your poor man should no more write on money, than your little one should grapple with a giant. Well, I will go backwards, and paint the delights which once were mine.

In verity, I did once enjoy the luxuries of life. I have reclined on ottomans, and viewed my rosy face in luxurious mirrors. I have been bowed to by keepers of cafés and hotels, and smiled upon by mothers who had daughters for sale. I have been the happy owner of horses and carriages, and I have had troops of dear and smiling friends. But all are gone. Horses, carriages, and particularly friends, are expensive things. I have now no means to support them. But this will not do. I feel that if I begin to enumerate past pleasures, I shall grow more lachrymose. Philosophy, where art thou? 'Tis thine office to administer to poverty-stricken wretches like me; to find employment for the mind when the gastric juices are "out of work." Come to me. We will analyse and generalise, and do every thing but sympathise, for in philosophy there is no sympathy!

Money, then, is of divers kinds; that is, by the term, money, is meant every species of currency, from a sovereign to a farthing.

The principal kinds of money are metallic and paperic.

FIRST.—Of metallic money. This is generally of gold or silver; there are, it is true, some kinds of money manufactured from the more useful, hence called the baser metals: as iron, brass, &c.; but these metals are by far too valuable

to be much used. They administer to so many of the vulgar and real wants of men, that if they were extensively used as money, some inconveniences might follow. Hence gold and silver have generally obtained as a circulating medium; for these metals cannot be made either into kettles, frying-pans, or steam boat boilers, owing to what philosophers call their natural unfitness of organic structure for such uses. In this may be seen a beautiful illustration of man's reflective faculties. He has made that which is of little or no real use, the power by which he obtains things truly valuable, as butcher's meat, potatoes, &c.

In

SECOND. Of paperic money. treating of this part of the subject, some care-will be necessary in order to avoid confusion of terms. Paperic money is manufactured from a fine species of pulp, produced by the pounding of old rags. This pulp is afterward spread out as thin as possible, in order to follow the principle laid down above, as the sublime discovery of man's reason, that things of no real value shall be able to procure all that is valuable, as friendship, wine, and, as before mentioned, butcher's meat, &c. The sheets of pulp are then dried and sent to the Promise manufactories, (by the vulgar these establishments are called banks,) where they undergo the process of "promising; a description of which, with all its cabalistic ceremonies, would occupy too much space. After these ceremonies are performed, the pulp assumes quite a different appearance, and, in fact, its nature is entirely changed; for, from being the remains of a cast-off garment, it is now money, and consequently valuable. But paperic money is not, strictly speaking, paperic money. It is a paperic promise to pay money. True, the real money does not always exist, and of consequence could not be paid; for it is an axiom in political economy, that "a man cannot pay without money." But then the promise has a legal value, which makes it very available in commercial transactions.

Paperic money, then, philosophically speaking, is an exhalation from real or metallic money, to which it bears the same proportion that echo does to primitive sound, and shadow to substance. It is legally the representative of value; but representation is not always true to that which should be represented, a fact which is not only illustrated by the his

Verily, philosophising hath its uses. I have written myself into a cool, comfortable state of mind, and can now discourse without excitement. Ye on whom poverty hath laid its finger, listen! When you feel the yoke, when your coats look particularly seedy, and your bowels do particularly yearn after meats or drinks, then, always philosophise. As thus, "Eating is, of all things, the mark of the animal." The more a man eats, the less will he think; and thinking, being the operation of the mind, marks the difference between godlike man, and the beasts that perish. Your great eaters are always gross, heavy, dull personages: while, on the contrary, your spare feeders are ever intellectual and etherial. Bowels yearn no more. To the circumstance of antiquated or seedy garments, ye may thus remark What a creature of folly is man, and particularly is that folly shown in dress. Here now am I, with a coat that hath been the labour of days, and hath in the manufacture, from the back of the sheep to the back of the man, employed some scores of human beings, men with immortal souls in them. Then what a

variety of other articles. Here now is a hat (the philosopher must not look at it,) what labour and toil did it cost to shape that part of my dress? There are my— my-yes, my boots also. They were the entire occupation of one candidate for immortality for two days. Here are also stockings and vest, and some people wear linen. Oh man! man! what a fool thou art! How art thou degenerated since the days of the fig leaf!

Psha! I am independent of the world, and of my subject. Money, thou art dross. I am a philosopher, and despise

thee!

MY OLD PLAID CLOAK.

My old plaid cloak !-my old plaid cloak ! How many storms we've borne together;

And now thou'rt old, and faded too, But still can shield me from the weather.

And here thou art-auld tartan friend! Again brought out to face the blast, And ward from me rude Boreas' cold, Faithful in duty to the last.

breast,

And borne the brunt of many a storm: And well hast thou withstood the test, But now art thin, and old in form.

Yet I'll not cast thee off, auld friend, Dimmed as thou art, and beauty

gone;

But every rent in thee will mend, Though thou shouldst cause the proud to scorn.

With thee my woodland walks I trace,
When mantling snows are falling fast:
And safe within thy warm embrace,
Fear nought from stern old Winter's
blast.

Old highland plaid- thou bring'st to

mind

The thoughts of days long past and gone;

Of happy hours, and friendship kind, In memory blest, though erewhile flown.

Yet thou art here-my well tried friend, Whom half a score of years hath seen, And will thy share of comfort lend, Though thou art not what thou hast been

A bonnie plaid-of brightest hue, That well might win the fair one's smile,

Of Lincoln green, and Highland blue, And purest white inmix'd the while.

As on thy time-worn folds I muse,

My mind is turned to Scotia's land, When Wallace brave, and gallant Bruce,

In times of fear maintained command.

And fireside joys too, they come up,

With Bonnie Doon, and Auld Lang Syne,

And Highland lads, in "bra' new plaids," With other pleasing thoughts combine.

Ah! who will call it weak in me,

And laugh at this, my humble song, Which thus doth praise the worth of thee,

Who hast been true to me so long.

I cannot scorn thee, honest plaid!
If thou art old, and faded too;
For well thou hast my friendship paid,
Which I have found with men but few.

THE MINIATURE.

A PEN AND INK DRAWING BY A SILENT

MAN.

MRS. ELVERTON was a widow, who resided in a small house in a remote and unfashionable part of the great city of London. Her circumstances had once been affluent; and it was believed, during the illness of her husband, that, in the event of his demise, he would leave his widow in possession of a large and independent property. Such, however, was not the case, for Mrs. Elverton found herself bereaved at once of her husband and fortune, and left with a lovely child to contend against adverse circumstances. Still her income, though limited, was adequate to her wants, and after the first tears of widowhood were dried, she could look around her little room, or gaze upon her beautiful child, and feel that there was some comfort left her even yet. Fanny grew up in loveliness, the light and the joy of her mother's heart and her lonely dwellingplace lonely, for there is no loneliness like that of two solitary beings in the heart of a great city. Mrs. Elverton had long been forsaken by her friends for the fault of poverty, and for awhile she felt the desertion bitterly; but when she began to look around her, and find that others suffered similar slights; when she perceived that the society of one dear being, who loves with the warmth of filial affection, comprises so many elements of delight, she ceased to sigh for the splendid enjoyments of which misfortune had bereaved her. It was about the time that Fanny had attained the age of twenty, that Mrs. Elverton found it necessary to receive a boarder into the family, to eke out her slender income. Fortunately for them, the first applicant was a young American, a newcomer in London, whose respectability and gentlemanly quiet manners recommended him at once. He was received with pleasure, and soon became domesticated in the family. Mrs. Elverton and her daughter had not long enjoyed the society of Mr. Lacey, before he fell dangerously sick, and his recovery was pronounced by his physicians extremely doubtful. At this crisis Fanny displayed all that charitable devotedness, all that unwearied watchfulness and care, which distress calls forth from the gentler portion of our race. Sleep sat lightly on

her eyes; food and water refreshed her not, while the suffering stranger lay upon his couch of pain. Day after day he groaned beneath the weight of his affliction, while the guardian girl, who had devoted herself to his service, sympathised with all his sorrows, and experienced sufferings hardly less poignant than his own. She sorrowed for him, sick and unhappy in a strange country; she felt for the poor mother, who, at the distance of three thousand miles, after watching through long weary nights for tidings from her beloved one, received the melancholy news of his affliction, and shuddered, lest the next arrival should confirm her darkest fears. At length the stranger partially recovered; he thanked his hostess and her daughter for their kind attentions, and his heart overflowed with gratitude which he could hardly find words to express. When he was able to move, he was permitted to descend from his sick chamber on warm days, and resume his seat at the corner of the fireplace in the little parlour. On these occasions, Fanny Elverton would seek to cheer the lonely hours of the guest, by playing his favourite airs on the piano, and singing his favourite songs. Never were musical talents employed for a better purpose. As the fairy fingers of the lady touched the ivory keys, the eyes of the feeble man would glisten and light up, for the remembered strains of music would recall the blue mountains and feathery forests of his native land, the broad river that flowed through his father's grounds, and the pallid face of his mother as she sat by the rustic porch all over-grown with flowering honeysuckle.

At length, when poor Lacey was congratulating himself that a radical recovery was close at hand; when he was preparing to return to America, a relapse came like a thunderbolt upon him. In the middle of the night he was seized with bleeding at the lungs, and his gasping sobs alarmed the lady of the house. It was necessary to send for a physician instantly. The only one on whom poor Lacey placed reliance lived two miles off. Mrs. Elverton's servant was on a visit in the country, and there was no one in the house whom she could despatch upon the errand.

In this emergency Fanny resolved to go herself for the physician. Having formed this resolution, she waited not a moment, but tying the blue riband of

her hat beneath her snowy chin, and casting her cloak around her shoulders, she sallied forth into the lone long street of London at midnight! It was a noble spirit that prompted the devoted girl to brave its terrors. Yet, banishing all fear, she sped upon her way. Now and then a carriage, freighted with fair, fatigued beings, returning home from a rout, thundered along the echoing pavement, and rumbled away in the distance. Once or twice, a wretched female, emerging from the obscurity of a dark alley, stood beneath a lamp-post for an instant, seeming in the ghastly gas-light like a spectral visitant, with a visage pale with sin and sorrow. She had nearly reached the house of the physician when she was unexpectedly accosted by a stranger, who placed himself before her with a swaggering air.

"For the love of heaven!" said the alarmed girl, "let me pass. My business is life and death! A friend lies dangerously sick-I am going for the physician."

"A likely tale !" responded the man. "But if so, pretty maid, suffer me to be your escort?"

Darting past him, Fanny flew onward with the speed of a doe. She caught from time to time the sound of her pursuer's footsteps, but she had strength to reach the physician's door, plied the knocker, and was admitted.

Need I say that it was something more than an ordinary interest in the welfare of a stranger, which prompted Fanny Elverton to watch the sick bed of Lacey with such unremitting care? She loved him and she dared to hope that he loved her in return. He had been so gentle and attentive in health, so patient and grateful in sickness; his eyes had beamed such expression when his lips were mute, that it was impossible to doubt that he loved. Then the fond and passionate girl, building upon a supposition, pictured the happiness of a life beyond the sea, in the flowery savannahs, by the proud mountains, the majestic rivers, and the splendid forests, of which, in her imagination, America was made up. At length, as if Heaven had heard her prayers, Lacey was once more restored to health. Again his smile was seen at the social board, and his pleasant voice heard in conversation; stronger

and stronger he grew each day, and at length he announced his intention of departing for his native land.

One day, Fanny discovered upon his table a small miniature. It represented a young and beautiful lady, and beneath it was inscribed on the golden setting, E. B. to Francis Lacey. The maiden stood a moment in speechless surprise-then, covering her face with her hands, she retired to a lonely room to combat and overcome her feelings. When she met Lacey again it was with her usual serenity and cheerfulness, and she even bade him adieu with an unfaltering voice when he left London for America. Many years afterward when Lacey, then the husband of the fair original picture, was taking the miniature from its case, he found therein the following lines written in a fine female hand upon a slip of paper:

Yes, thine the beauty angels prize-
The heart must needs confess
The softness of thy queenly eyes,
Thy gentle loveliness.

And thou art happy-since 'tis thine

To hear his whispered vows, While love and constancy entwine

Their garlands round your brows.

And he shall press the bridal wreath
Upon thy forehead fair,
And fealty unto thee till death

Before the altar swear.

Oh! may ye never weep the hour

When first in joy ye met, Nor ever wish, without the power, To sever and forget.

THE CONFESSIONS OF A DREAMER.

A VISION OF TIME.

It was the evening of a long and cloudless summer day. The sun had sunk to his silent rest, and the protracted and melancholy twilight which belongs

to that season had succeeded. I was alone in the country, reclining upon a sofa and looking out with half-closed eyes, and with feelings too troubled to subside to any definite form, upon the still and darkening view. The intense

and tomb-like repose of every thing around, gradually prevailed over my senses, and, by an extremely curious, but not uncommon, process of the mind, I passed from a state of deeply excited feeling, to one of deep-rapt slumber.

I had not remained long in this condition, until I perceived a man enter the room and glide toward me. His approach was noiseless, with velvet steps; he came upon me like a cloud moving over the sky. He reached the place where I was lying, and I had an opportunity of examining his appearance. He was a young and vigorous man; his features had an air of kingly triumph, mingled with a pale and settled sadness. He addressed me thus: "You see before you the sovereign of all things beneath the throne of heaven; the subduer of the sword, the confuter of the eloquent tongue, the easy master of prince and pontiff, the inevitable minister of destiny; him who brightens and who dims the scene of life, who brings and takes away joy; the offspring of eternity, the sire of the world. I am TIME."

"But where," cried I, "O, potent arbiter of life, whose power I have so often seen in grief and told in tears, where is the instrument of thy might, the sceptre of thy empire? And where are the hoary locks of the decrepit form with which men are wont to paint the venerable father of forgotten centuries? You are but a young man." A faint smile passed over his face as I put this second question.

"I am still young," he replied. "The children of eternity fade not quite so fast as the sons of humanity. I have lived through countless ages, cradling and entombing unnumbered worlds; yet my labours are but begun."

He raised in his hand a little hourglass, whose upper compartment was still nearly full; the particles of sand were of infinite minuteness, and figures could not have told their quantity.

66 Behold," said he, the sceptre of my sway. As I sit before the throne of the Almighty, and watch each yeardropping sand steal silently through, so fall and change and pass away the structures, the hopes, the life of man. Throw this robe around thee; it is Fancy's mantle. Thou shalt behold the very least of the changes that I work."

I robed myself in the dress which he gave me, and instantly perceived a long, vaulted room, stretching out dimly

before me. It was filled with a double row of compartments or successive scenes. The lengthened panorama came gradually nearer, and the two front scenes were clearly revealed; I fixed my eyes upon one of them. It was a crowded church; the shadows of evening were beginning to fall: a popular preacher was in the pulpit, and crowded aisles attested his triumph. His glowing eye and extended arm evinced the fulness of his joy. Carriages waited at the door, contending for the honour of carrying him home. I looked upon the adjoining scene, which showed the change of thirty years; the place, the season were all the same. A few ancients were slumbering in the pews, and the aged sexton stood impatiently by the door. An old man was leaning over the cushions of the pulpit, in a torn crape gown; looking" as weak as is a breaking wave." I looked closely, and saw that it was the same person that stood in each pulpit. I listened and caught part of the discourses: they were reading the same sermon; the passages which, in the one place, were pronounced with the spirit and vigour of animated elocution, were, in the other, faltered forth, faintly, brokenly. Those sentences which there roused every heart, and were almost deemed the inspiration of the paraclete, here fell unanswered by a single feeling. The younger one concluded, and the congregation rose with the noise of distant thunder. I thought that I saw a tear in the old man's eye as he closed his book, and prepared to take homeward his solitary steps.

Time waved a little wand, and the next view came forward. Two young collegians were sitting in the same room

friends, and inhabitants of the same city. Their inmost thoughts were open to one another; their plans were all in common; neither formed any dream of life in which the other was not an actor, and each felt sure that life would not be tolerable without the constant companionship of the other. The adjoining scene displayed a drawing-room containing several persons; these two young men met, looking some ten years older, and were presented to one another.

Next I saw a crowded ball-room. One young lady was distinguished above the rest by her gaiety and vivacity. It was the first night of her first season, and she was "the belle of the evening." Intoxicated by universal admiration, she fancied that she wielded the sceptre of a