tery, that her alone, of all the group, could I either see or think of her alone I watched, as, with the same downcast brow, she glided round the altar, gently and aerially, as if her presence, like that of a spirit, was something to be felt, not

seen.

Suddenly, while I gazed, the loud crash of a thousand cymbals was heard;-the massy gates of the Temple flew open, as the illuminated aisle filled the whole vestibule; while, at the same instant, as if the light and the sounds were borne together, a peal of rich harmony came mingling with the radiance.

It was then, by that light, which shone full upon the young maiden's features, as, starting at the blaze, she raised her eyes to the portal, and, as suddenly, let fall their lids again,-it was then I beheld, what even my own ardent imagination, in its most vivid dreams of beauty, had never pictured. Not Psyche herself, when pausing on the threshold of heaven, while its first glories fell on her dazzled lids, could have looked more beautiful, or blushed with a more innocent shame. Often as I had felt the power of looks, none had ever entered into my soul so far. It was a new feeling-a new sense -coming as suddenly as that radiance into the vestibule, and, at once, filling my whole being;—and had that vision but lingered another moment before my eyes, I should have wholly forgotten who I was and where, and thrown myself, in prostrate adoration, at her feet.

But scarcely had that gush of harmony been heard, when the sacred bird, which had, till now, stood motionless as an image, expanded his wings, and flew into the Temple; while his graceful young worshippers, with a fleetness like his own, followed, and she, who had left a dream in my heart never to be forgotten, vanished with the rest. As she went rapidly past the pillar against which I leaned, the ivy that encircled it caught in her drapery, and disengaged some ornament which fell to the ground. It was the small mirror which I had seen shining on her bosom. Hastily and tremulously I picked it up, and hurried to restore it;-but she was already lost to my eyes in the crowd.

In vain I tried to follow;-the aisles were already filled.

and numbers of eager pilgrims pressed towards the portal. But the servants of the Temple prevented all further entrance, and still, as I presented myself, their white wands barred the way. Perplexed and irritated amid that crowd of faces, regarding all as enemies that impeded my progress, I stood on tiptoe, gazing into the busy aisles, and with a heart beating as I caught, from time to time, a glimpse of some spangled zone, or lotus wreath, which led me to fancy that I had discovered the object of my search. But it was all in vain ;-in every direction, files of sacred nymphs were moving, but nowhere could I see her, whom alone I sought.

In this state of breathless agitation did I stand for some time,-bewildered with the confusion of faces and lights, as well as with the clouds of incense that rolled around me,till, fevered and impatient, I could endure it no longer. Forcing my way out of the vestibule into the cool air, I hurried back through the alley of sphinxes to the shore and flung myself into the boat.

IN the history of English literature there is no more gentle or lovable spirit than Charles Lamb. His life was a tragedy relieved only by his own genial humor. His style was born of a quaint and original character, and he stamped upon all that he wrote the vivid impression of his own rare individuality. He was the son of a lawyer's clerk in the Inner Temple, and was born in London in 1775. He was educated as a blue-coat charity boy in the famous school of Christ Hospital, where he had Coleridge as a companion. In 1792, he obtained a position in the accountant's office of the East India Company, with whom he remained in a clerical position for thirty-five years, when he was retired upon a pension ample for his simple needs. While his public life was uneventful his private life was altered and saddened by a frightful calamity. His well-loved sister Mary stabbed her own mother to death during an outbreak of insanity. This occurred in 1796. For a time Mary was confined to an asylum, but the fit passing off, she was released on her brother giving a solemn promise to watch over her during life. How faithfully he kept this promise has become a matter of literary history. For the sake of his sister, Lamb gave up the brighter prospects of life, and abandoned, it is thought, a love which he had conceived for a young lady who is apparently alluded to in his essays under the designation of Alice W.

The history of the long association between brother and sister, broken from time to time by fresh outbreaks of the fatal malady, is one of the most touching things in fact or fiction. She was never allowed to know the dreadful act she had committed. Even after Lamb's death, his friend Talfourd wrote his biography without mentioning the fact, but after her death made the necessary additions and corrections.

Lamb began his literary career in 1797 as a poet in conjunction with his friends, Coleridge and Lloyd, their three names appearing conjointly on a volume of poems. His poems are rather evidences of a fine poetic sensibility than achievements of poetic power. His reputation must always rest upon his immortal "Essays of Elia." These originally appeared in the London Magazine, and were reprinted in 1823. They are marvels of terseness of treatment and nicety of expression. They combine acuteness of observation with a quaintness derived from old English writers. His other works are "Rosamond Grey," a tale, "John Woodvill," a tragedy; "Tales from Shakespeare," and "The Adventures of Ulysses." In the preparation of the two latter books, which were intended for children, he was assisted by his sister Mary. Readers of the English dramatists are indebted to him for rescuing from neglect dramatic writers of the Shakespearean age in his admirable work, "Specimens of English Dramatic Poets, who Lived about the Time of Shakespeare, with Notes, &c."

Lamb died in 1834; his sister survived until 1847. The special characteristic of his mind was humor, and his distinguishing taste was for the old and quaint in places, books and men. His puns were confined to his talk and his letters.

SCOTCHMEN.

(From "Imperfect Sympathies," in the "Essays of Elia.") I HAVE been trying all my life to like Scotchmen, and am obliged to desist from the experiment in despair. They cannot like me-and, in truth, I never knew one of that nation who attempted to do it. There is something more plain and ingenuous in their mode of proceeding. We know one another at first sight.

There is an order of imperfect intellects (under which mine must be content to rank) which in its constitution is essentially anti-Caledonian. The owners of the sort of faculties I allude to, have minds rather suggestive than comprehensive. They have no pretences to much clearness or precision in their ideas, or in their manner of expressing them. Their intellectual wardrobe (to confess fairly) has few whole pieces in it. They are content with fragments and scattered pieces of Truth. She presents no full front to them -a feature or side-face at the most. Hints and glimpses, germs and crude essays at a system, is the utmost they pretend to. They beat up a little game peradventure-and leave it to knottier heads, more robust constitutions, to run it down. The light that lights them is not steady and polar, but mutable and shifting; waxing, and again waning. Their conversation is accordingly. They will throw out a random word in or out of season, and be content to let it pass for what it is worth. They cannot speak always as if they were upon their oath-but must be understood, speaking or writing, with some abatement. They seldom wait to mature a proposition, but e'en bring it to market in the green ear. They delight to impart their defective discoveries as they arise, without waiting for their full development. They are no systematizers, and would but err more by attempting it. Their minds, as I said before, are suggestive merely.

The brain of a true Caledonian (if I am not mistaken) is constituted upon quite a different plan. His Minerva is born in panoply. You are never admitted to see his ideas in their growth-if indeed, they do grow, and are not rather put together upon principles of clock-work. You never catch his mind in an undress. He never hints or suggests any thing, but unlades his stock of ideas in perfect order and completeness. He brings his total wealth into company, and gravely unpacks it. His riches are always about him. He never stoops to catch a glittering something in your presence to share it with you, before he quite knows whether it be true touch or not. You cannot cry halves to anything that he finds. He does not find, but bring. You never witness his first apprehension of a thing. His understanding is always