examined, and it certainly was more troublesome here than at any of the much abused Austrian, or other government offices which we passed abroad. The searching of boxes and rummaging our clothes, was most tiresome; however, our hardships were as nothing compared with those of the Eau de Cologne man, who had provided, he thought, enough of this highly-prized perfume to serve himself and his family for several months, and found that he was obliged to pay a very large sum for it as soon as it was detected by the custom-house officers. When these

officials turned over the contents of all our trunks, bags, and boxes, in their hands, I felt myself very happy in the consolation of not having done anything to meet with their displeasure. They also demanded a much larger fee for porterage and passing it, than any which we had paid summing all the fees up together which we had to pay on the continent. When we arrived near London, such a dingy smoky atmosphere, such myriads of chimney pots and tiles; so dark, so sombre, so gloomy all appeared, that coming from a sunny and clear climate where one had resided for more than four years, the change was truly wonderful.

THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR.

Upon a bright auspicious morn,
As that when Hebe fair was born,
In queenly state descried from far,
As brightly shining as a star.
A dazzling form, whose every trace
Shone forth in loveliness and grace,
Drew near-approached with radiant smile,
And gently pressed my hand the while.

I stood transfixed with mute surprise;
She raised to mine her sparkling eyes,
And said: "I came from India's strand,
To seek in this my native land,
The last of a once noble race,
Through which thou dost thy lineage trace:
Allied unto that ancient line,

By blood I kindred claim with thine."

I heard, I saw. Was I deceived?
Were ears, were eyes to be believed?
I gazed upon her beauties rare,
Her graceful form so dazzling fair;
And then enchanted by her smile,
Her lovely mien, yet queenly style;
Her hand unto my lips I pressed,
And passionately her addressed.

Fair vision of life's brightest day,
Of peerless beauty's sceptered sway;
The fairest of the dazzling throng,
By lovers, or by poets sung.
These moments spending in thy smile,
Repay the past of care and toil;
For bliss like this I oft have sighed,
Till now such bliss hath been denied.

Far brighter than the brightest dreams That youth or manhood's sunny gleams

Ere shed upon my path of gloom,
Has 'oped to day life's summer bloom.
Oh! was there one on earth so blest?
One with such happiness possessed;
A life so joyless passed before,

With pleasures now, brimmed, running o'er!

Her lovely form my eye surveyed,
In queenly robes and gems arrayed;
The colour of her flaxen hair;
Her flowing dress of texture rare,
Its silk and rich brocade of gold,
And gems were dazzling to behold,
The sapphire sparkled on her breast,
With diamond wreaths her hair was dressed.

Around her arms so fair and bright,
Receiving, giving back the light,
Were rarest pearls of price untold,
Whose settings pendant emeralds hold.
But on her hands of pearly white.
No shining circlet met the sight;
Around her shoulders graceful fall
Was loosely hung an Indian shawl.

Her hand in mine she gently laid,
While smiles o'er her fair features played,
She said: Oh! 'tis my greatest joy
Long wished, to find this dearest tie,
The only one of name and race,
To whom I kindred claim can trace;
Into whose hand I come to pour

The wealth I brought from India's shore.

On those bright hours I will not dwell,
Nor longer stay life's tale to tell,
The lights and shades of various hue,
It's changing phases wind us through:
In balmy air and summer skies,
Life was a paradise of joys:

When Winter's chilling blasts swept by,
She shrank and laid her down to die.

And oh the care, what words can tell,
With which I watched the ebb and swell,
The fitful changes of the tide
Of life, my every thought employed;
Till spring returned, and smiling May
Again lit up life's flickering ray,

And strength, and health, and summer skies,
Brought back the lustre to her eyes.

One eve we in the garden walked, And o'er life's changes pensive talked, Amidst the roses then in flower, She plucked the fairest of the bower. And made a bouquet white and red, And careful tied with silken thread; While sad forebodings in my breast Forbade my heart to be at rest.

Why was it? Well, I could not tell,
Strange, that with one I knew so well,
Such doubt, such mystery, should remain,
That fancy yet could ne'er explain.
The bouquet to my hand she gave,
And turning round her shawl to save,

It fell, beneath it folded lay

Bright wings, they spread, she flew away! Shrewsbury. J. P. SHORTHOUSE,

and Mrs. Opie s as close as close can be to the same sprightly author's "Gent." Lord Byron is leaning familiarly on Southey, apparently enjoying his "Table-Talk," and Jeremy Taylor, in a falling position, is supported by an original Joe Miller. The author of "Paradise Lost" has got close to Robert Montgomery's "Satan," and Henry Smith, the silver-tongued preacher of Elizabeth's time, is nearly crushed by "Five Hundred Skeletons of Sermons," and twentythree bulky" Pulpits." The fiercest polemics and the meekest Christians, lamb-and-lion-like, stand harmoniously on one shelf; reviewers and victims placidly survey each other from opposite corners; High Churchmen and Low Churchmen join in goodly rows; Bonner and Crammer dwell together in unity; William Penn and Napoleon Bonaparte are almost armin-arm; Cromwell and Charles are at peace; and Lord Chief Justice Jefferies seems greatly to enjoy the society of his many victims. Here kings meet their subjects without etiquette, and Alfred the Great and Bamfylde Moore Carew tell each other their widely different stories; Nelson and fighting Fitzgerald fight their battles o'er again; and George Washington, in close contiguity to George the Third, appears to be on the best of terms with that stubborn old gentleman.

I have, almost at random, selected a book which lies within my arm's reach; and lo! here are some thoughts about books, which, had I read them before, would have saved me from the above speculations. And by whom is this following written? Why, by none other than the owner of this very library. Hear what he says, and if you do not admire its book-loving spirit, I pray you proceed no farther in my company. "I never,' writes my friend, "enter a library without a feeling of reverence for the company in which I am placed. I regard a volume as the very spirit of its author, the actual being of the man who thought it, wrote it, left it, and sent it forth for all its purposes of might and mercy." And again: "What strange reflections rush upon the mind of a thinking man when he gazes upon the shelves of a richly-stored library! For instance, what queer juxtaposition will authors find upon tables and shelves! Men who in life were sadly hostile and divided in judgment and affection, here sit down side by side. The lion and the lamb, the vulture and the dove, keep quiet company. I am now gazing upon Featley's Dippers Dipt' and Paget's 'Heresiography' on a table, while directly over them I see Keach and Kiffin, Tombs, and the venerable Jesse. These men wrote and controverted for all coming ages; and yet, no doubt, they are all happy and united in fraternal love in that heaven where the spirits of just men made perfect are delivered from error, prejudice, and rancour. There, on that shelf, is that glorious folio, Reliquiæ Baxterianæ,' and a few niches off, the 'Bloody Assizes' and the life of that arrant Scoundrel, George Lord Jefferies, the supple tool of all the cruelties of James the Second.

Lloyd's Worthies of Charles the First's Reign' are cheek-by-jowl with Lord Nugent's capital Life of John Hampden' and Foster's 'Lives of Statesmen of the Commonwealth.' Then some books seem to get together by the principle of elective affinity. Dr. Chalmers' works will keep close by Andrew Fuller, and Jay's Sermons will be found very near to old Jeremiah Burroughs."

Mark, gentle reader, how delicate, yet how sharp, is the satire in this presumed companionship of Chalmers and Fuller, and Jay and Burroughs; for students well enough know that the Scotch divine was not a little indebted for some of his best things to the sturdy Baptist, and that Burroughs' works form, in many instances, the staple of William Jay's discourses.

Go into public or private libraries, reader, and, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, you will find a large proportion of learned rubbish. Such is not the case here. Of such literary lumber this library is swept and garnished. Let me, Jack-Horner-like, select a few "plums."

Here is a treasure-house of sweets, a mine all sparkling with precious stones; and yet homely-enough-looking is the casket which enshrines the gems, like the rough jerkin which frequently covers a noble heart. It is the bulky tome of Adams who was at once the philosopher, poet, and orator of the Church. Take William Shakspeare, Jeremy Taylor, and Robert Hall, string their separate beauties, pearllike, on a golden thread, and then you will have something like a conception of the glowing style of Thomas Adams.

Another ancient volume attracts our itching fingers. Not long had the printing-press been at work in the old times when these black-letter pages first came into the world, bearing their treasures with them. A noble specimen of an cient typography this: broad margins, solidlooking columns, and red initial letters. Hundreds of years have passed since the rude press stamped these almost immortal characters, yet they are sharp and black as though they had been "pulled" but yesterday. On the margins are other characters, brown and rusty, but legible enough. Here and there certain portions of the text are under-scored, and brief annotations are placed opposite. In whose writing are these marginal references? No other hand than that of Philip Melancthon rested on these pages, and no other face than his bent over them. I almost fancy that “meek and mild" reformer's spirit is near me as I touch the very paper which once he touched. Verily, there is a charm, a species of papyromagnetism, in sheets which the hand of genius and piety has consecrated by physical contact!

I know well enough that I am coveting my neighbour's goods, but I feel strongly inclined to lay my appropriative "claws" on certain thin volumes which occupy a certain corner of this library, Were I to filch Mrs. Hutchinson's trial because of its scarcity, I fear me that

the literary larceny would end in a trial in which I should take a leading part. The abstraction of any of these exceedingly rare volumes of Early Histories of the New-England States might consign me to prison, and the fact of there having been a churchman's property might possibly deprive me of the benefit of clergy. No; I will be content to look and long, and thank my stars that I have profited by these famous lines, whose author is, I regret to say, unknown. Would that all others beside myself were influenced by his "utterances:"

"Steal not this book, my honest friend,

For fear the gallows should be your end, And when yonder the Lord will say ; 'Where's the book you stole away ?'

Less attractive in externals are the russet volumes, before which I now stand, than many of their modern neighbours who flaunt in all the glories of scarlet, and green, and gold; but oh! what mines of untold wealth lie between the covers of these curious little quartos and duodecimos! How quaintly seductive are the old-fashioned title-pages; how enticing the type; how beautiful to a schoolman's eye the rude wood-cuts, which seem to have been hacked, not cut, out of the wood; how astonishingly delightful the copper "effigies." As I gaze on each and all, I am no longer a dweller in this book-multiplication age; but by a miracle time has rolled back, and wrapped in a sad-coloured cloak, topped with a steeplecrowned hat, and adorned with ruffles, I'am standing at the window of old John Dunton, whose shop in the "Poultry" bears the sign of the "Black Raven," gazing at his "Bloody Assizes," just out, and eyeing critically the portraits of martyrs prefixed to that singular production, who, we are told by an inscription beneath, "All died in faith." I ramble, too, about "Sainte Powle's" church-yard, and drop into the "Sun and Bible," or "The Gunne," in Fleet Street, or "The Angel;" for in those times signs were not peculiar to hostelries. But this day-dream would seduce me too far from my more immediate subject, so I would fain return to this nook of the study where, as elder brethren of literature, Puritan Fathers, non-conformists, old travellers, theologians, and history-writers, stand gravely side by side.

Talk of modern illustrated works! Why, looking on some supurb elephant folios which quietly repose on this Oxford table, I imagine that we have not made so great a progress in book decoration as some would have us believe. Here is "Bath," a series of views of the city of Bladud and Beau Nash, by Nattes; and of other parts of England, by Smirke and Loutherbourg, which are perfect of their kind. They are coloured with the greatest care, and are equal to the original water-colour draw ings. And here, too, is that costly work, a work which could only have been produced under governmental patronage as this was:

"An Illustrated Record of all the Important Events of the Annals of Europe." I question if such another copy as the one before me could anywhere be found. Only by a rare chance came it into the possession of its present owner: a duplicate of it will be vainly sought for, save in noble and great public libraries; and, even when found in such, it forms a feature.

I now open a splendid imperial quarto edition of the "Life of Nelson;" profusely illustrated by some enthusiastic collector, with all relating to the great English Admiral. A thousand sources must have been ransacked, a thousand books mutilated, in order to contribute plates of persons and places to this precious collection. It must have been the labour of a life as well as a labour of love, the illustrating of this volume, which is absolutely unique.

Magnificent is this copy of Barrington's Memoirs, a presentation-copy from Sir Jonah; and almost perfect the Cromwellian collection. This latter assemblage of all relating to the great Protector, is the most perfect, perhaps, extant; a pretty sure indication that the collector is a bit of a hero-worshipper, a thick-and-thin admirer of England's greatest man. Well, so too am I; and therefore I am not unfrequently in this peculiar portion of the library.

But if I go on, I shall write a catalogue, and pen a panegyric, instead of gossipping in a desultory way about books in general, with which intention I set out. Yet must I not omit to glance at the works of Bishop Brownrigg, Frank, Donne, Hooker, Jackson, Bull, Reynolds, Clerk, Taylor, and of Perkins, Robert Harris, Ball, Baxter, Howe, Flavel, Owen, Caryl, and cropped-eared Prynne. Nor can I refrain from peeping into certain cases contain ing precious autographs, and glancing with candle overhead, connoisseur fashion, at the choice paintings which adorn the bits of space on the walls.

Of these, there is one by Franke, a "St. John preaching in the Wilderness," a bit of exquisite colouring; a cabinet head of Shakspeare, an undoubted copy of Vandyke. This precious gem of art lay for one hundred and sixty years in the family of one of the early New-England settlers, and was presented by a descendant to the owner. Many a tempting offer has been made him for this effigy of the great bard by the great painter; but he is a collector of such matters for love, not lucre, so he quietly listens to all proposals, and negatives them with an appreciative smile.

Here is a veritable Teniers, a Sister of Charity, and near it is a dead Christ and the two Marys, after Vandyke. It is a picture of great beauty; and, in all probability, the picture is only second in age to the original.

I

There are other copies, and good ones, too, of some of Ruben's finest pictures at Antwerp. never saw the originals, but these are so fine that I am considerably less anxious to stand before the identical canvas of the renowned artist than I was before the fac-similes met my

eye. Modern art, too, is represented here, and other capital paintings adorn the apart

ment.

Twelve o'clock, as I live! The fire has sunk in the grate, and my "midnight oil" is nearly expended. Fainter grow the forms of the folios: as for the duodecimos, they are lost in the gloom near the ceiling. The pictures are shadowy, and the mournful cadence of the not far distant sea falls like lulling music on my ear. “To bed, to bed!" as Lady Macbeth (I believe) says; but not before one more loving look at my book friends and friends indeed they have been to me during the last three months, for on that table have I written two works of a totally different character, and have found at my elbow every work of reference for the purposes of both that I required. I had not occasion to quit the room once for information on any topic; and that, I take it, is the very best compliment that can be paid to a wellselected and admirably-arrarged library.

"And where," perhaps the reader may ask, "is this learned snuggery of which you have been so long discoursing?" Gentle reader; in a certain town of a certain county, there is an old mysterious ruin, celebrated by novelist and poet. Stand by that "mill of controversy and cast a stone in a southwesterly direction; if vigorously slung, you may perchance break one of the windows of that library. More I say not.

A rap at the study door-not a spiritual one, though, for a face and a pair of spectacles are visible: "What, not yet in bed?" asks a wellknown voice.

And so good

We called, and, lo, he answered! Half in fear,
I sent the note back. Echoing rock and bay
Made melancholy music far and near;
Slowly it died away.

That schooner, you remember? Flying ghost!
Her canvass catching every wandering beam,
Aërial, noiseless, past the glimmering coast
She glided like a dream.

Would we were leaning from your window now,
Together calling to the eerie loon,
The fresh wind blowing care from either brow,
This sumptuous night of June!

So many sighs load this sweet inland air,
'Tis hard to breathe, nor can we find relief;
However lightly touched, we all must share
The nobleness of grief.

But sighs are spent before they reach your ear, Vaguely they mingle with the water's rune; No sadder sound salutes you than the clear, Wild laughter of the loon.

SEAWARD.

To *****

How long it seems since that mild April night, When, leaning from the window, you and I Heard, clearly ringing from the shadowy bight, The loon's unearthly cry!

Southwest the wind blew; million little waves Ran rippling round the point in mellow tune; But mournful, like the voice of one who raves. That laughter of the loon.

We called to him, while blindly through the haze Upclimbed the meagre moon behind us, slow, So dim, the fleet of boats we scarce could trace, Moored lightly, just below.

HOPE.

In unseen dewdrops cradled lie
The rainbow colours that on high
Form the bright promise of the sky:

They vanish in thin vapours cold, Then in wild clouds are darkly rolled, With serpent-lightnings in each fold

Cold hail with burning flames enwound; Swift whirlwinds loaded deep with sound, And silence awful and profound:

Till all is swept away, and breaks
The setting sun through golden flakes
From which the trembling stillness shakes

The few bright drops that form the bow,
The promise-colours that o'erflow
With joy and hope the world below.