ters on philosophical subjects of the highest class of intellect;
and it arises from the variety and originality of their ideas. The
mind of the reader is fatigued by following out the multitude of
thoughts which their works engender. At the close of every paragraph
almost, you involuntarily close the book, to reflect on the subjects
of meditation which it has presented. The same peculiarity may be
remarked in the annals of Tacitus, the essays of Bacon, the poetry of
Milton, the _Inferno_ of Dante, the _Discorsi_ of Machiavel. In the
habit of expansion which has arisen in more recent times from the
multiplication of books, the profits made by writing, and the
necessity of satisfying the craving of a voracious public for
something new, is to be found the cause of the remarkable difference
in the modes of composition which has since become prevalent. When men
write for the monthly or quarterly press, there is no time to be
condensed or profound. What has been gained, however, in animation and
fervour, has too often been lost in thought; and it may be doubted
whether, among the many writers of the present day, whether in Great
Britain or the Continent, there is one whose works, a century hence,
will be deemed to contain as much of original and valuable ideas as
even the preceding sketch, imperfect as it is, has presented in
Montesquieu.

A REMINISCENCE OF BOYHOOD.

By Delta.

"Life is a dream, whose seeming truth
Is moralized in age and youth;
When all the comforts man can share
As wandering as his fancies are:
Till in a mist of dark decay
The dreamer vanish quite away."

Bishop King.

I.

'Twas a blithe morning in the aureate month
Of July, when, in pride of summer power,
The sun enliven'd nature: dew-besprent,
A wilderness of flowers their scent exhaled
Into the soft, warm zephyr; early a-foot,
On public roads, and by each hedge-way path,
From the far North, and from Hybernia's strand,
With vestures many-hued, and ceaseless chat,
The reapers to the coming harvest plied--
Father and mother, stripling and young child,
On back or shoulder borne. I trode again
A scene of youth, bright in its natural lines
Even to a stranger's eyes when first time seen,
But sanctified to mine by many a fond
And faithful recognition. O'er the Esk,
Swoln by nocturnal showers, the hawthorn