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thoughts were perpetually starting off, and wandering away to a thousand different things. Sometimes he paused suddenly in the middle of what he was saying, or mistaking names and places-lost himself, as it were, in a labyrinth of words at others he seemed to be gifted with a strange eloquence, a meteor-like brilliancy, which went out all at once, and left him in mental darkness. He was continually losing the thread of their discourse; and even when the clue was restored to him, he did not always know how to use it. His conversation, if it could be termed such, was, generally speaking, rambling and unconnected, in the which he miscalled everything they spoke of, confounding names and dates; so that it was difficult to follow or understand him. But now and then the poet-spirit glimmered out like a star-a fallingstar-bright, startling, and gone for ever! His disorder was supposed, by those who knew him best, to be not so much alienation of mind as feebleness of body-a deficiency rather of his vital than his intellectual powers. The little that he could utter connectedly had oftentimes a deep meaning; but he was soon exhausted; and even after he had left off speaking, the pale lips might be seen still moving restlessly. He was like a lamp that has been scorched and shattered, but is still illuminated from within with a fitful brilliancy—a lamp that has been suffered to burn out too rapidly, and so has exhausted and destroyed itself. Well might the poet ask dreamily, "What is human nature?" A divine illumination only can solve the enigma, and reveal to us at once its weakness and its strength. It was beautiful to see how the countenance of the poet lighted up when the name of some favourite author, mentioned by his friend the Rector, flashed across his memory, bringing back a whole host of associations that came and vanished like ghosts, or, as when a torch is thrown into an abyss, revealing for a moment far-off objects, and then going out suddenly in darkness. He began a quotation eagerly; but recollection soon failed, and, weary and dispirited, he leant back, and wept like a child. Just then the Rector's bride-for he had not been long married-came in to make tea for them, chiding her husband in a playful manner for sitting in the dark, and speaking and laughing so cheerfully, although without addressing herself in particular to her wayward guest, that he soon recovered his composure, and seemed well content to watch her as she moved about, or took advantage of that dim firelight to press a fond kiss on the weary brow of her husband. The poet was passionately fond of music, and after tea was over she played and sang to him until it was time to retire. He never thought to thank her, and she needed it not: it was enough to feel that she had soothed that restless spirit for a few brief hours.

At the earnest entreaties of his young wife, the Rector had given up his midnight studies; but on that particular evening he lingered longer than usual, sitting all alone by the blazing fire, with his head resting on his hand, while his

countenance wore an expression of deep thought. It may be that he mused thus:-" Poor William! How fearful it is to see the wreck of a fine mind! How little either of us dreamt of this years ago, when we were schoolfellows together! And what am I, that I should be spared and blessed, and he stricken?" Or he might have been still puzzling over his Greek translation. His wife, when she crept in a few hours afterwards, found him in a sound sleep. "Poor Collins!" murmured the Rector, starting at her light touch, and still dreaming of the poet-" Poor human nature!" And then opening his eyes upon the loving countenance which bent over him, he added hastily-" I really beg | your pardon, my dear: I am afraid I have transgressed again.'

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His pale and weary face won him a ready forgiveness; and going softly past the door of the poet's chamber, they heard him moaning and complaining in his troubled sleep.

afterwards the celebrated Dr. Warton; and his The Rector of Winslade, was Joseph Warton, guest the unfortunate William Collins. They had, together; and the invitation of the latter was as we have before mentionel, been schoolfellows given with the hope that quiet and country air might exert a soothing influence over the worldwearied mind and enfeebled frame of the poet, whose mental and bodily capacities seemed to be utterly exhausted; it was too late, however, for it to have any permanent effect.

The history of William Collins has yet to be written, and the task belongs only to one with talent enough to appreciate, and tenderness to pity-one who has felt and triumphed over the infirmities of genius, retaining sufficient recollection of its manifold trials and temptations to make him very gentle in his judgment of another. We learn, from the vague accounts preserved of him, that the poet was distinguished while at college both for genius and indolence, and that, tired of the confinement of an academical life, and fondly imagining that his superior abilities must command success, he launched out his little bark, somewhat abruptly, into the ocean of literature, and was shipwrecked, as many have been before and since, with the same, and even greater talent. His sudden departure from college has been quoted as indicative of that fatal malady to which he subsequently fell a vic tim; but, after all, his was a very common delusion; and if this was insanity, thousands have lived and died mad besides Collins.

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Abstract poetry possesses few admirers. Men seldom like what they cannot readily understand; and some of the writings of Collins are in a style of sentiment as utterly unintelligible to common capacities as if the subject were treated in an unknown language; of too high an order to suit the general taste, they never became popular. Such poets resemble stars that sit apart and sing in a bright orbit of their own. Alas! for the poet, yearning for the breath of human applause! Alas! for the wandering star! Heart-sick and disappointed, Collins is said to

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have burnt many copies of his first work with; tions; dissatisfied with his best performances, his own hands.

disgusted with his fortune, the man of letters too often spends his weary days in conflicts with obscure misery; harassed, chagrined, debased, or maddened; the victim at once of tragedy and farce; the last forlorn outpost in the war of Mind against Matter!"

The history of genius is not, however, always written in tears, but has its bright as well as its dark side. Where it is not so we may lament over the shadow that has fallen upon its greatness, but we must forbear to judge,

His friend, Dr. Johnson, tells us "that he was a visionary, and loved fairies and giants and monsters; that he delighted to roam through the meadows of enchantment, to gaze on the magnificence of golden palaces, and repose by the waterfalls of Elysian gardens!" Collins was a visionary also in other senses of the term; he had his visions of greatness, in the which many glorious works were designed but never completed his visions of goodness, when his thoughts were angels, and his life mocked at Collins soon grew weary of his quiet life at them; his visions of the beautiful-never to be Winslade, and returned to town; but his restrealized on earth! He held a lamp to others, less spirit went with him. He was soon afterand sat meanwhile in darkness. He strove towards enabled, by the possession of a small erect a ladder which should reach heaven, but legacy, to gratify its yearnings, fondly hoping slumbered himself at the very foot. His ideal that travelling, with change of scene, was all was pure and lofty, but his daily life fell im- that he required. It was, however, too late. measurably below that high standard. His He again sank into a species of melancholy and imagination was brilliant, but he wanted judg- intellectual weakness, and languished for many ment; his disposition ardent, but versatile; his years under that depression of mind which enaffections warm, but suffered to run to waste. chains the faculties without destroying them, Professing to scorn the opinions of his fellow- and leaves reason the knowledge of right withmen, he yet toiled and maddened for their ap- out the power of pursuing it. In order to relieve plause. His existence was a contradiction! this, he is said to have resorted to intoxication; but we willingly draw a veil over this portion of his life. If the sin was great, so also was the temptation, with perhaps but little capability of resistance. The consciousness of our own wanderings of heart, our own errors, should make us very gentle and loveful in our judgment of others, and teach us rather to leave all judgment to Him whose name is Love.

How touching is Carlyle's description of the internal conflict perpetually raging in minds such as these: Collins himself might have sat for the picture, only that it is a general, and not an individual portrait.

"The man of letters," he writes, "is not wholly made of spirit, but of clay and spirit mixed. Far from being the most enviable, his way of life is, perhaps, among the many modes by which an ardent mind endeavours to express its activity, the most thickly beset with suffering and degradation. Talent of any sort is generally accompanied with a peculiar fineness of sensibility; of genius this is the most essential constituent; and life in any shape has sorrows enough for hearts so formed. The employments of literature sharpen this natural tendency; the vexations that accompany them frequently exasperate it into morbid soreness. The cares and toils of literature are the business of life; its delights are too ethereal and too transient to furnish that perennial flow of satisfaction, coarse, but plenteous and substantial, of which happiness in this world of ours is made. So keen a temperament, with so little to restrain or satisfy, and so much to distress and tempt it, produces contradictions which few are adequate to reconcile. Hence the unhappiness of literary men; hence their faults and follies. Few spectacles are more afflicting than that of such a man, so gifted and so fated, so jostled and tossed to and fro in the rude bustle of life, the buffetings of which he is so little fitted to endure. Cherishing, it may be, the loftiest thoughts, and clogged with the meanest wants; of pure and holy purposes, yet ever driven from the straight path by the pressure of necessity, or the impulse of passion; thirsting for glory, and frequently in want of daily bread; hovering between the empyrean of his fancy and the squalid desert of reality; cramped and foiled in his most strenuous exer

Collins died at Chichester, his native place, in his thirty-ninth year; and there, in that old cathedral, where his wild shrieks were wont to echo through the cloisters in a most appalling manner, is a monument by Flaxman to the memory of the poet. Truly may it be said of him, "that God unloosed his weary star!"

In the, for the most part, melancholy history of William Collins there is one bright pageone golden leaf upon which we love to linger, and the perusal of which we have reserved until the last. The record is supplied by his friend, the celebrated Dr. Johnson, who everywhere speaks of him with the utmost tenderness and compassion. We learn from him that the poet, in all his wanderings, travelled with no companion but an English Testament; nay, he even gives us his own language in reference to it :

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"I have but one book,' said Collins, and that is the best!' "'

To us there is not a sentence in all his writings so sweet as this; and we love to fancy him in his lucid intervals, clothed and in his right mind, sitting at the feet of Jesus."

We remember once seeing a picture of Collins in his study, or rather at his studies; for we fancy that the poet could have had no regular studio. The attenuated form; the grey, expressive eyes; the fixed, sedate aspect, which from intense thought had settled into an habitual frown, were all faithfully delineated. An hour

glass stood upon the table before him, with the sand nearly run out; while books and papers lay scattered carelessly around. An air of gloom hung over the whole picture, which was only relieved by one ray of light that penetrated through an opposite window, and glancing across the thoughtful brow of the poet, rested with a golden radiance like a glory upon an open volume by his side. We recollect pointing to it exultingly as "the one book!" and that the artist was pleased with the idea, although he had meant it not; and that he even talked of inscribing upon that open page a portion of the beautiful and appropriate language of Holy Writ. "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden; and I will give you rest." But the artist died, and the picture was never altered.

We must not finish this our slight sketch, or rather our shadowy outline-which we would fain see filled up by some master hand-without some mention of the unquestionable genius of the poet. "The style of Collins," says one of his biographers, "is clear and strong, and his numbers harmonious. He was well acquainted with Eschylus and Euripides, and drew deep from their inspired fountains. His imagination had a certain wild grandeur, verging on the borders of the extravagant, and wonderfully poetical. His 'Ode to the Passions' must ever be ranked with the St. Cecilia' of Dryden, and the Bard' of Gray, as among the boldest and the brightest efforts of the lyric muse." Dr. Knox speaks of his genius as in some measure resembling that of Tickell: "Dignity, solemnity, and pathos," he writes, “are the striking features of his compositions. None but a true poet could have written his song over Fidele, in Shakspeare's Cymbeline."" A low, sad, and prophetic note runs through the music of all his poetry, which was sometimes strangely sweet, and full of a wild, figurative, and picturesque beauty; notwithstanding which, Collins will find but few readers, and fewer still admirers.

We had selected and arranged our flowers of sad thought, bringing, as Montaigne says, little of our own save the thread that ties them; we had strung together our beads of memory, and were telling them over with tears. "Alas! for human nature!" we felt ready to exclaim, "Alas! for human genius!" And then the recollection of the Book-the one Book-that the Poet so loved, fell sweetly and soothingly upon our heart.

THE RICH MAN'S BRIDE.
BY A. T*.

She moves 'mid Fashion's glitt'ring throng,
In conscious beauty's pride:

The envious eyes of all are fix'd
Upon the Rich Man's Bride!

Her full lip's well-dissembled smile,

Worn to deceive each guest,

Is needed not; the worldly-wise
Still deem the rich the blest.

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They asked me for the ladye of my love;
Whereto I answer'd-"If ye seek to know,
Go where our mountain breezes softest blow
Through heather underneath and pines above;
Those wanderers uncontroll'd will sigh her name.
Lean by bright torrents that from hills leap
down,

Like liquid diamonds o'er a purple crown;
And they will murmur in low song the same.
Ask of the stars upon Night's ebon vest-

Question the dewy blossoms by the spring--Demand of all plumed birds in shaws that sing; And each and all, as at some high behest, Will straightway, with a universal breath, Respond in melody-ELIZABETH !''

Banks of the Yore.

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"The advances towards Reason and Common Sense are always slow and gradual; but the worth of the conquest lies, not in the haste with which it is achieved, but in its stability."

HUME.

Ten o'clock on a summer Sabbath morning, in an English village!

To the suggestive and contemplative mind what a vision of unequalled beauty, what a dream of deep poetic fancy is conjured up by those few words: Ten o'clock on a summer Sabbath morning, in an English village! Ten o'clock-an hour before Divine service; ten o'clock-half an hour before the first sound of the church peal falls, with its musical echoes, on the ear! And in an English village how calm, how hushed and voiceless is that solemn hour, undisturbed by aught save when the wild carolling of birds and the busy hum of bees, uniting with the most delicious accord, break, for a moment's space, the silence of the scene! No sign of the presence of Man is visible, for all are engaged in preparations for the approaching ceremony; but the rustic cottages-English cottages, dear reader!-which cluster pleasantly about each other, and the well-tilled fields of ripe, golden corn, waving gloriously in the sunlight, mark that his hand is there!

So was it in the little village of Crayford, in Kent; which I would fain describe as it appeared on a lovely Sabbath morning in the summer of the year 183-. The sun was shining in majestic splendour

"O'er tree and hill, o'er stream and brook," darting through the thickly-interwoven branches of the trees a golden beam of coruscating radiance, thus rendering the pale green of the wild ash and the darker hue of the stately elm in charming relief, and perfect in their effect of light and shade. A thousand busy insects-the glittering summerfly, the variegated moth, the proud, gaudy butterfly, and the poor, humble motewere circling and wheeling about, courting his notice, and happy in his grateful warmth. The industrious, ever-toiling bee hummed by close to the moist ground, or flew from flower to flower, laying in its store of sweet saccharine; while the grasshopper chirped in tuneful voice its short, quick note of gladness. Not a bird among the leafy coverts around but was carolling forth, in its own fashion, its happiness that bright summer's morning. In fact, between thee and me, dear reader, Nature had assumed

her gladdest smile, and had donned her gayest attire that day, to celebrate and bless the wedding of George Wilson and Ellen Johnston.

And who were George Wilson and Ellen Johnston?

George was-let not my romantic readers feel disappointed-the village carpenter. But though only a carpenter, he had received a more than tolerable education, and had availed himself as much as possible of that inestimable blessing to Youth. Perhaps those few who raise the AntiEducational standard (and they are becomingthank God for it!-fewer every day) will argue that this very education would be productive of no benefit to-a carpenter! Into such a disquisition it is not my present purpose to enter, but merely to record the events of my little history precisely as they occurred-no more. I may as well say, however, to the confusion of that antiprogressive doctrine, that this education did not prevent George Wilson from becoming a clever and expert work man and an ingenious mechanic. He was consequently much in advance of the young men of the village in point of knowledge. When any knotty point was to be decided, when any enigmatic phrase in the newspapers that puzzled the heads of the village Elders, required to be solved, who was there from whom they could obtain the explanation they sought so readily as from George Wilson? It is true that the Curate of the parish was a good authority on such matters, but his reign had terminated when George returned from a school some distance from Crayford; and his admiring friends perceived that he possessed attainments and judgment more than equal to the use they could make of them; and the worthy and ill-paid minister was not ill pleased to have so onerous a duty depend on another. And of course George was friendly with all the village. From the good pastor himself, who admired the native integrity and openness of George's character, to the raggedest urchin, who "thowt there war noa sic a koind chop as maister George," and whom he assisted to deprive the ash or willow of their pendant branches, and to fix the bent pin so "natterally" to the line of coarse packthread, summit of their young desires in angling for ticklebacks," or "miller's-thumbs," in the

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quently walked a distance of many miles merely to hear the Crayford children sing their hymns of praise to the Creator. It may be well believed that from possessing the power to play on the violin, the services of George Wilson were in daily requisition; and in the summer evenings he might always be seen in the most open space which the village boasted, playing a merry tune to

"The tripping dance and active measure."

little streamlet that wound its way with pleasant burr through the village, George was not only a friend but a great favourite of all. It would be idle to record, as it would be impossible to enumerate, the various good offices, the multitudinous labours for the weal of others, this favouritism entailed on him; but George's unselfish heart and willing hand were always ready, when called upon, to do anything-no matter what-for him who made the request. It will be conceived from this, therefore, that there existed one fault in George's character-a too pliant will, a too easy disposition. And in truth this was so; for he possessed not sufficient strength of mind to make a firm stand against a pressing request, even if it should not be compatible with his own duty to himself. For instance: if any party was made for an excursion into the neigh-speaking, be termed handsome, the smile that bouring woods, an appeal, couched in terms of more than ordinary tenacity, would always lure him from his work; and he would console himself with the observation, "Oh! that will do tomorrow!"

Alas! Procrastination, with its hydra jaws, consumes To-day, as it will consume To-morrow; even though, like Saturn, it devours its own offspring its rapacity increasing tenfold with every meal.

But, saving in this one venial drawback, the character of George Wilson was estimable in the highest degree. Of a contented disposition, and blessed with activity and invariable cheerfulness, which derived its own pleasure from accustomed employment, he was possessed of good nature unbounded. He had been a good, a dutiful son, as he was now a most affectionate brother; and it was delightful to witness the deep love that existed between Annie Wilson and her brother. Their father had died about the time that George bade adieu to childhood; their mother having been dead some years previously. A kind-hearted relation living at a village some few miles distant had undertaken the care of the orphans, till George grew a fine young man, and was able to remove back to Crayford and support his sister by his industry. George's duties on the Sabbath, the day of rest for all, were far from being light. For an hour or two he was always employed in instructing the children at the Sunday-school, who all said they learned more from George on that seventh day than they did from the old schoolmaster on the other six; but if the truth must be confessed, their liking for the master made the pupils more attentive and diligent; and unless the will and heart are present, nothing can be effectually achieved. Then he was the chef-the violin-of the little orchestra, which fulfilled the duty of organ in the primitive little church; "first fiddle" he was called, and the leader of the village choir. Possessing a fine voice and some little knowledge of music, he had, by incessant labour and patience, so far moulded their intractable organs into something like harmony (unisonic though it was) and precision, to the envy and admiration of adjoining parishes; for it was well known that persons fre

To complete our summary of George Wilson, it is necessary to give a short description of his personal appearance. In years he was about five-and-twenty-scarcely looking so old, rather tall, and "straight as a pine." Of a florid complexion, his hair and whiskers were of a light auburn; and although he might not, strictly

was ever upon his face, and played round a welldefined mouth, rendered the tout ensemble exceedingly prepossessing; notwithstanding the contour might not have been so perfect as the stern chisel of Michael Angelo would have created from the hard block, or the ravishing pencil of him of Urbino would have brought to life on imperishable canvas. But be possessed a treasure in a pair of lively blue eyes, that incessantly changed their expression under every variety of feeling in their owner. There was more of grace and ease too in his movements than one could have well expected to find; but this was imparted by the Mind within.

"You shall find elegance of manner where there is elegance of mind," saith the Philosopher of Crete; "where one is coarse so surely is the other." And this was truly exemplified in the instance of George Wilson.

I have already said that he was about to be united to Eilen Johnston. Ellen was one of the daughters of a middle-class farmer, who was, as it was commonly termed, "well to do in the world." A stern moralist, a hot enthusiast-we much doubt whether the right name is not a fanatic-in his religion, but, unlike many of these sectarians, honest in his professions, he had brought up his children with a strong hand-that bane to the growth of our best feelings, the iron rule, which exacts obedience where the gentle care should have won filial affection and duty-and therefore, it must be confessed that his character did not render him very popular among the villagers. All thought, all spoke of him as a high moral-minded man, who would not shrink from any duty, however painful it might be; who would sacrifice everything to Right; but, notwithstanding the respect they entertained for him, they felt that his austerity forbade a nearer approach to his acquaintance. And these hard principles had made Farmer Johnston at first violently opposed to the marriage of his daughter and George— for what just reason can hardly be determined, save from that curious feeling with which a jealous-minded man is apt to look upon everything which he supposes will diminish his authority; certainly not because George was inferior in point of station or circumstances to

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