rking
in wait over all the earth for the innocent and the good, the happy and
the beautiful; and, when guarded no more by our eyes, it seems as if the
demon would leap out upon his prey. Or is it because we are so selfish
that we cannot bear the thought of losing the sight of the happiness of
a beloved object, and are troubled with a strange jealousy of beings
unknown to us, and for ever to be unknown, about to be taken into the
very heart, perhaps, of the friend from whom we are parting, and to whom
in that fear we give almost a sullen farewell? Or does the shadow of
death pass over us while we stand for the last time together on the
sea-shore, and see the ship with all her sails about to voyage away to
the uttermost parts of the earth? Or do we shudder at the thought of
mutability in all created things--and know that ere a few suns shall
have brightened the path of the swift vessel on the sea, we shall be
dimly remembered--at last forgotten--and all those days, months, and
years that once seemed eternal, swallowed up in everlasting oblivion?

With us all ambitious desires some years ago expired. Far rather would
we read than write nowadays--far rather than read, sit with shut eyes
and no book in the room--far rather than so sit, walk about alone
anywhere

"Beneath the umbrage deep
That shades the silent world of memory."

Shall we live? or "like beasts and common people die?" There is
something harsh and grating in the collocation of these words of the
"Melancholy Cowley;" yet he meant no harm, for he was a kind, good
creature as ever was born, and a true genius. He there has expressed
concisely, but too abruptly, the mere fact of their falling alike and
together into oblivion. Far better Gray's exquisite words,

"On some fond breast the parting soul relies!"

The reliance is firm and sure; the "fond breast" is faithful to its
trust, and dying, transmits it to another; till after two or three
transmissions--holy all, but fainter and dimmer--the pious tradition
dies, and all memorial of the love and the delight, the pity and the
sorrow, is swallowed up in vacant night.

Posthumous Fame! Proud words--yet may they be uttered in a humble
spirit. The common lot of man is, after death--oblivion. Yet genius,
however small its sphere, if conversant with the conditions of the human
heart, may vivify with indestructible life some happy delineations, that
shall continue to be held dear by successive sorrowers