The same habit has occasioned another serious defect-the absence of a solid substratum of intellectual materials on which his imagination may work. The habit necessitates an undue exercise of imagination upon a very slight basis. We may also hint that, occasionally, mere gossip about literary chiefs, and that too, perhaps, of an unauthenticated kind, is too eagerly laid hold of, and too largely retailed by Mr. Gilfillan. Anecdotes are the lowest and the narrowest forms of truth known in the world, and they can give no full idea of character unless all the circumstances and the entire scene be introduced alongwith the actions or the words singled out by report. The unpublished opinions which Mr. Gilfillan has heard from incompetent acquaintances are too freely mentioned, and although he himself would not agree with these, yet they receive no note of disapprobation. Of this we give a striking instance from the paper on Robert Hall: "A distinguished Scottish divine who visited him expressed to us disappointment with his preaching, which was chiefly remarkable, he said, for the flow and facility with which fine and finished sentences issued from his lips; but added that his conversational powers were unrivalled, and that altogether he was by far the most extraordinary specimen of human nature he had ever witnessed. He He gave him the impression of a being detained among us by very slight and trembling tendrils." The last sentence (which we have put in italics) is a piece of most exquisite nonsense, and Mr. Gilfillan should not have given it any currency in conversation or writing, or even have kept it on his memory. Robert Hall, whose body and soul were so manly, resolute, and even fierce in their uniform expression, to suggest the idea of a tender and sensitive plant, shrinking from the breezes and the light of earth! Why, the great man was sturdy and defiant as a Scottish thistle, and would have proved himself such in debate with the distinguished "Scottish divine." The "tendrils" which excited so much sympathy were somewhat more like prickles which would have occasioned pain. The "big-browed, keen-eyed," man whom Mr. Gilfillan described, had no very sickly or ethereal aspect; and what spectator, save a very stupid one whom Mr. Gilfillan should have discarded, would have perceived in the heavy and gross mouth and chin, and in the rotund waist of Mr. Hall, any very heavenly tendencies-any indication that he was " fast "wearin' awa' to the land o' the leal ?" Some delicate and fragile creature, like Felicia Hemans or poor John Keats, and not Robert Hall, might have been sitting by the side of the Scottish divine. We cannot conjecture who this divine was, for clergymen in large troops crossed the border to hold an interview with the celebrated preacher, and, alas! (contrary to all the English proverbs anent Scotch emigrants) they did come back to rehearse daily the conversation, and to report their impressions. In spite, however, of these and other faults, which could easily be amended, Mr. Gilfillan's "Gallery" and the subsequent sketches are not only novelties, but, in the most important respects, they are models in the range of English criticism. To his hands, sooner than to those of any other professional judge, would we commit the grandest works of our literature. Mr. Gilfillan, our readers will be glad to learn, is a young man, not very much in advance of thirty, and therefore a brilliant and influential career is before him. May it be long, peaceful, and profitable! At present he is contemplating a work upon the "Hebrew Bards and Prophets," and if he do justice to himself, there is little fear but that he will do such justice to these bards and prophets of the Lord as they have never yet received. He is well qualified to take down the harp which hung upon the willows by the rivers of Babylon. As a lecturer on literary subjects, he has frequently appeared, and with a success, it must be confessed, considerably less than his friends and admirers could have anticipated. His emphatic and earnest oratory, his brilliant style of composition, and the glowing character of his ideas, might have justified all in expecting a complete triumph. His audiences, indeed, could not have been the most select, for even in a large city few are the persons who would seek the philosophy rather than the easy science of a subject; and we believe, also, that Mr. Gilfillan did not do himself justice in the way of careful preparation. His themes were those on which he had al ready written largely, and his hearers got lengthy paragraphs awkwardly introduced, which they had previously conned over as his readers. Besides, lecturing (such as it must be at present, if hearers are to be obtained) will fail to represent literature to advantage. An exposition of principles and rules would be thrown away, and the illustrations alone would be effective. To all his friends, Mr. Gilfillan ever ap- sensible of the ludicrous elements in the pears as the enthusiastic and accomplished scene. We repaired to the soirée. It was literary man. His conversation and his a crowded gathering, presided over by a letters are brief and easy, though original nobleman whose eloquence was of the inarticles upon books and their authors. termitting and hesitating kind, and who Often, when in solitude and gloom, have we been cheered by his epistles, until the postman was hailed as a Mercury from the sky; and on different occasions, when excitement was much needed, we have met him face to face. He himself has his dark hours and desponding moods, and his letters then are what he would call the "soulspray" of fierce tumult within. But he is beginning to study sorrowful hearts, and éven his own, with an artist's curiosity and aim. The man must suffer personally, or by such a sympathy as shall wholly identify him with the lot of the miserable, ere the artist can work successfully upon the materials of genuine human life. We have seen Mr. Gilfillan in all his moods. Our first flying visit found him discussing and eulogizing a sheep's head; and as his knife kept clattering among the teeth, he expressed a warm preference of that simple table-delicacy. He walked out into the garden, and made his desert off the gooseberry-bushes. All the afternoon and evening, his conversation was in a gentle though elevated strain. In and out of doors, we noticed that the same poetic hues dyed all his discourse; and we question much whether his vivid imagination needs the presence and inspiration of beautiful scenery: for whether he looked to the summer grate (prosaic enough, of course, with its black and cold ribs) or to the summer sky, his remarks were equally fine in essence and form. took as long to give out a second sentence as the stewards had taken to fill up a second cup of tea. We were then favoured with an article on personal cleanliness and on other kindred duties which the people owed to themselves. We often wished that the newly-wedded pair had been present to get the benefit of the lecture, especially as they would not have been shocked by the multitude of grammatical mistakes which the orator committed. Mr. Gilfillan then rose, and made a brilliant speech on the character and advantages of manly education. It was sadly out of tune with all the preceding and subsequent twaddle spoken by gentlemen-upon their legs. He urged the duty, not of keeping clean hands, but of gaining highly accomplished intellects, and would have sent his audience to the library rather than to the bath. He stood up like a prophet among school-boys,, and concluded by a thundering denunciation of those who seek to separate or to alienate literature from religion. This was followed by a wretchedly weak attempt at a retort upon Gilfillan, by one who wisely said that he would not be ambitious in his eloquence ! It was modesty most wise. With a servility becoming a page to his master, he very properly followed up what had been said about clean hands by recommending the use of gloves! And these are your improvement folks! Hands clean and gloved! Very good; but pray, what of SOULS? During the whole night there was not a sentence worth reporting, save what fell from Gilfillan. Our next meeting was in the beginning of the present year, on the occasion of commemorating the birth-day of James Watt. Much boisterous fun had we in the Before the hour of festival, a young couple, house, over our joint recollections of the a mere boy and girl, came to be married soirée. We sought to conjecture the place by him. They had evidently just got where James Watt was, for one speaker their faces washed for the ceremony, and had represented him as looking down upon no ablutions, no cosmeties even, could have the meeting, another had sketched him as made them look interesting. Yet Mr. peeping up towards the same august assemGilfillan's imagination was excited: he bly, and a third hinted that he was seated spoke of love longer than life and stronger beside the president, as the public guest, than death; he prayed for heaven and and smiling very complacently upon the earth to be propitious on the match; and ladies. We had seen no face at the skyperformed the marriage-service in the light, no eye winking in the seams of the finest style we have ever heard, just as if he floor, and certainly the seat beside the had been uniting the lady-moon and the chairman was occupied by a person whom dreaming Endymion in the cave of the sil- no imagination could conceive of as James very grove. It was only at the close, when Watt. In private we made much better he shook hands with them and wished them entertainment than we had received in all happiness, that he seemed to become public. From the Metropolitan. THE RETURN HOME. What varied emotions, how freely they rise, After long years of absence, of trouble and pain; How the tear will, unbidden, oft start to the eyes, When the home of our boyhood we welcome again. The ivy clad walls many old thoughts awaken, Of pleasures that long since have fleeted away; Though each chamber-desolate, drear, and forsaken, My heart holds thee dearest, even in thy decay. The happiest moments, the blythest of hours, sung; The choicest of garlands, the sweetest of flowers, Sad feelings that only my bosom can know. Where are those happy youngsters, my playmates in youth, Whose spirits were free and unfettered as air? Alas! how I fain would deny the stern truthThey are gone, and I am a lone wanderer here. The cold smile of strangers and sorrow has shaded The hope that so bright in my bosom did burn; Farewell, the fond dreams of my youth now are faded, Love greets not, friends cheer not, the exile's return. A VOICE FROM NATURE. BY E. H. BARRINGTON. Is it a tone from angels' lips This voice of truth is never mute, I hear it 'midst the piercing shrieks A father led two hungry boys Adown a princely street, And each one shivered with the cold, Then passed upon a high-fed steed And hurried by the beggar's side As if a snake were there; And then the beggar turned his eyes A father never held that faith A laughing light sprung down the skies The world is wide, the world is fair, And large as Mercy's heart can be,'Twas, sure, a voice of fell despair That said, "There is no room for me." No room! O man, the fields are white, The harvest lags, the hands are few; And few are earnest, strong, and rightThe human harvest lags for you, O man! and such as you. In chariot rolls the millionaire The poor, the rich,-shall these the poles Or aught, save purse and pedigree ? So withered, and of love so bare, And there is room-much room-to raise Room! Valor carves the room he lacks, Let the cowardly despair; Time shall aid the working hand; What shall baffle those who dare Be first to lead the band? Not prejudice, with darkly scowling frown; Though her sentinels have long Like scarecrows awed the throng Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; My pleasant face you'll meet, Silently creeping, creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; I come quietly creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere: To see me creeping, creeping everywhere. Where her moss-grown wall was built-pull it Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; down. When you're numbered with the dead, In the happy spring I'll come, Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere, To Him at whose command Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. REMEMBRANCE. BY EMMA BLOODWORTH We remember! all the sunshine How often when the brow is grave, And all is dark around, The heart from some sweet memory An inward joy hath found. And better far it loves to dwell 'Midst those visions of the past, Than to watch the changing splendor We remember! all the sorrow That met us on our way, When our path seemed 'midst the flowers And often when the eye is bright, We feel the heart-pulse sinking With some hidden woe the while. So we nurse perchance the brightest thought And we have not always done with grief |