between him and others. A man who is at the head of a small Sect, is probably a person of small and eccentric mind, influencing a few others, of a similar mean and distorted intellect. But the founder of a RELIGION must always be a mighty Spirit. No one who is the theme of reverence with a million intelligent minds, but must have propounded in his writings or doctrines much both of the good and the true. Throughout the language in which he wrote, Shakspere is all supreme. There is not a sceptic or dissentient whose arguments are worth refutation.

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That our great author may be imperfect, as he is said to be, is merely saying that he belonged to 'imperfect humanity. The flaws and errors of his dramas are few, however, and possibly owe their origin to interpolators; besides which, I must protest against such a process of judging. It is not by what a man occasionally fails or omits to do (for that may arise from hurry or accident) but by what he has done, that his capability and value must be decided. It is by the profound wisdom of Shakspere, by his wonderful imagination, displayed in a thousand varieties of character, by his subtle and delicate fancies, his grand thoughts, his boundless charity, nay, even by the music that steals into our souls, with the countless changes and fluctuations, from strength to sweetness, of his charming verse, that we must learn to regard him truly. But all this eulogy would be superfluous, except for a limited class of thinkers; for Shakspere is now making his way through foreign countries and distant regions; vanquishing race after race, like the great conquerors of old; in spite of ignorance and prejudice, and imperfect

teachers; and in the midst of dim and obscure interpretations, that would check the progress of any Spirit less potent and catholic than his own!

In the summer time, when the world is cheerful and full of life, let us regale ourselves with the laughing scenes and merry songs of SHAKSPERE. In the winter evenings, when sadder thoughts come forth, let us rest upon his grave, philosophic page, and try to gather comfort as well as wisdom from the deep speculations which may be found there. At all times, let his 'Book of Miracles' be near at hand: for, be sure that the more we read therein, the greater must our reverence be. And, if any intruder should tell us that all we ponder on and admire is mere matter of imagination and fancy; is shadowy, unreal, without profit; and that the end is nought: bid him show you the thing that is eternal, or any effort of the human mind that has outlasted the dreams of Poetry. Have I said that they are dreams? Alas! what is there here that

is so far beyond a dream? WE ourselves (so our great poet says)

'Are of such stuff

AS DREAMS ARE MADE OF; AND OUR LITTLE LIFE
IS ROUNDED WITH A SLEEP!!

THE DEATH OF FRIENDS.

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DEATH is the tyrant of the imagination. His reign is in solitude and darkness; in tombs and prisons; over weak hearts and seething brains. He lives, without shape or sound, a phantasm; inaccessible to sight or touch; a ghastly and terrible Apprehension.

The fear of death is common to all. There never was a man of such hardihood of nerve, but he has, at one time or other, shrunk from pain or peril, the result of which might be death. Death is a certain evil, if life be a good. Despair may welcome it, and philosophy may affect to disregard its approach; but our instinct, which is always true, first commands us to fear. It is not so much the pain of dying, nor even the array of death, (though the 'pompa mortis' is sufficiently repelling;) but it is that vague and tremendous thought, that vast impenetrable gloom, without epth, or breadth, or bound, which no reason can compass and no intellect pry into, that alarms us. Our fancy is ripe with wonders, and it fills up the space between us and Heaven.

There is something very sad in the death of friends. We seem to provide for our own mortality, and to make up our minds to die. We are warned by sickness,-fever, and ague, and sleepless nights, and a hundred dull infirmities; but when our friends pass away, we lament them as though we had considered them immortal.

It is wise, I suppose, that we should attach ourselves to things which are transient; else it seems to be a perilous trust when a man ties his hopes to so frail a thing as woman. They are so gentle, so affectionate, so true in sorrow, so untired and untiring; but the leaf withers not sooner, the tropic lights fade not more abruptly into darkness. They die and are taken from us; and we weep; and our friends tell us that it is not wise to grieve, for that all which is mortal perisheth. They do not know that

We grieve the more because we grieve in vain !

If our grief could bring back the dead, it would be stormy and loud; we should disturb the sunny quiet of day; we should startle the dull night from her repose. But our hearts would not grieve as they grieve now, when hope is dead within us.

I remember, even as a gray-headed man remembers, clearly and more distinctly than the things of yesterday, that which happened long ago. I remember, when I was about four years of age, how I learned to spell, and was sent daily in the servant's hand to a little day-school, to fight my way (amidst a score of other urchins) through the perils of the alphabet. I had no ambition then, no hatred, no uncharitableness.

If these dæmons have possessed me since, they must have been cast down upon me by the malice of my stars.' I had no organs for such things: yet now I can hate almost as strongly as I love, and am as constant to my antipathies as to my affections.

Well, when my fifth was running into my sixth year, and I was busied with parables and Scripture history (the only food which nourished my infant mind), I was much noticed by a young person, a female. I was at that time living with an old relation in H-shire, and I still preserve the recollection of Miss R's tender condescension towards me. She was a pretty delicate girl, and very amiable; and I became-(yes, it is true, for I remember the strong feelings of that time)-enamored of her. My love had the fire of passion, but not the clay which drags it downwards; it partook of the innocence of my years, while it etherealized me. Whether it was the divinity of beauty that stung me, or rather that lifted me above the darkness and immaturity of childhood, I know not; but my feelings were any thing but childish. By some strong intuition I felt that there was a difference (I knew not what) that called forth an extraordinary and impetuous regard.

She was the first object (save my mother) that I ever attached myself to. I had better have loved a flower,

a weed. For when I knew her she had the seeds of death within her. Consumption had 'caught her;' his sickly hand was upon her, like the canker on the rose, and drew out a perilous, unearthly bloom. The hues and vigor of life were flushing too quickly through her cheek (yet how pale she was at times!) She wasted