rning, far less abstract philosophy, than
Fielding, he is only exceeded by him in one character--(and that,
indeed, the most admirable in English fiction)--the character of Parson
Adams. Jeanie Deans is worth a thousand such as Fanny Andrews. Fielding,
Le Sage, and Cervantes are the only three writers, since the world
began, with whom, as a novelist, he can be compared. And perhaps he
excels them, as Voltaire excelled all the writers of his nation, not by
the superior merits of one work, but by the brilliant aggregate of many.
_Tom Jones, Gil Blas, Don Quixote_, are, without doubt, greater,
_much_ greater, productions than Waverley; but the _authors_
of _Tom Jones, Gil Blas_, and even of _Don Quixote_, have not
manifested the same fertile and mighty genius as _author_ of the
Waverley Novels.

And _that_ genius--seemingly so inexhaustible--is quenched at
length! We can be charmed no more--the eloquent tongue is mute--the
master's wand is broken up--the right hand hath forgot its cunning-the
cord that is loosened was indeed of silver--and the bowl that is broken
at the dark well was of gold beyond all price.

* * * * *

When a great man dies, he leaves a chasm which eternity cannot fill.
Others succeed to his fame--but never to the exact place which he held
in the world's eye;--they may be greater than the one we have lost--but
they are not he. Shakspeare built not his throne on the same site as
Homer--nor Scott on that whence Shakspeare looked down upon the
universe. The gap which Scott leaves in the world is the token of the
space he filled in the homage of his times. A hundred ages hence our
posterity will still see that wide interval untenanted--a vast and
mighty era in the intellectual world, which will prove how spacious were
"the city and the temple, whose summit has reached to Heaven."

_New Monthly Magazine_.

* * * * *

TO A ROSE.

THE THOUGHT FROM THE ITALIAN.

Queen of Flora's emerald bowers,
Imperial Rose, thou flower of flowers,
Wave thy moss-enwreathen stem,
Wave thy dewy diadem;
Thy crimson luxury unfold,
And drink the sunny blaze of gold.

O'er the Zephyr, sportive minion,
Spreads the blue, aurelian pinion.
Now in love's low whispers winging,
Now in giddy fondness clinging,
With all a lover's warmth he wooes thee,
With all a lover's wiles pursues thee.

And thou wilt yield, and thou wilt give
T