tion flashes upon the mind, that the object was unworthy of the sacrifice. But she who has watched by the deathbed of him she doated on, and by her angel-presence, drawn his thoughts to heaven, and taught him resignation; who kissed his soul when passing from his lips, and watched the glazed eye that even in death expressed his tenderness, until she fancied that he lingered still, and paused to hear him breathing—such a one may mingle in society, and pass along unnoticed with the rest of the crowd; she may join the sportive dance and seem to partake of its merriment; the wound may apparently be healed, and the smile of cheerfulness may enlighten her countenance; but still her midnight thoughts are working in the grave, and straining near to madness to picture the being that is mouldering there. She fades, without being conscious herself of gradual decay, and like the tulip, becomes more lovely, in consequence of disease engendered at the root. Such has been the fate of myriads of the fairest and the best of creation, and such was the destiny of Lucy Gray.

SUFFOLK'S SOLILOQUY.

[From the Prophet of St. Paul's.]

BY D. P. BROWN.

SHE bade me leave her--and in future deem her
But as a friend.-So should she think of me,
As if the "charter'd libertine," the mind
Could be subdued and taught forgetfulness,
While each repulsive lesson would revive
Love's dear remembrance and confirm it more.
'Tis all in vain--the heart can never learn
To throb by rule or shun what it adores.
Friendship may swell to love and fill the soul,
But love ne'er shrinks to friendship, till it dies.
Extremes beget extremes, and sometimes hate
Usurps the throne of tenderness and joy,
And riots in their ruin.-But true love
Shudders at diminution as at death.

Nay, it is death-the glowing heart is cold,
Is cheerless, all its charms are lost,

And from its former height it sinks, at once,
To the low level of instinctive brutes.
Hearts that have ever loved, as we should love,
Will stoop to no abatement-no restraint
No change-no barter-but a soul for soul!
Why cease to love-or cease to be beloved?
The Great Creator taught the breast to glow
With generous emotion, and to cling,
Close as to life, to sympathetic arms.

What is the world without it, what the glare
Of pride and pomp-of wealth and pageantry?
They cannot buy, vain-glorious as they are,
The least emotion that I feel for thee.
Who is the richer then? The wretch that hugs
His golden store and nightly gloats upon 't,
Or the warm spirit that shakes off its chains
-This clod of earth-and limitless, and pure,

As Heaven's own ray, sheds light and transport round?

MISREPRESENTATIONS OF AMERICA.

BY J. W. WILLIAMS.

Ir is doubtless the fate of all countries to be misrepresented. The honest credulity of the old travellers, ignorant of science, led them into a thousand exaggerations concerning the physical characteristics of distant nations, by which a child of our times would scarcely be deceived for a moment. They saw, wondered, believed, (for belief, in rude times, is the child of wonder,) and narrated. Marco Polo, Sir John Mandeville, and others of that category, ran no danger of being dubbed, like poor Lucian, great scoffers at religion, because, like him, they could not see the hole in Syria, through which Deucalion's deluge retired into the earth, in all its original proportions. Their powers of vision were unlimited. But they were more prone to narrate than to enquire, and it is astonishing what an amount of very conscientious absurdity may in that manner be produced. The man who merely glances at the landscape as he skims over the roads or sails along the rivers of a country, ought to beware how he reasons about soil and productions. He would probably very much mislead a settler. Yet is this very traveller the most dogmatical and opinionated person in the universe. He trusts exactly those impressions which, in all the ordinary affairs of life, are scrutinised with jealousy, and seldom acted upon without revision, by men of shrewdness and experience. They form his premises

-false in fact, or so imperfectly apprehended as scarcely to exhibit one quality of truth; his results must of course be essentially false in doctrine. If he ever distrusts himself he is soon over-convinced by his own vehemency of assertion, as great liars are, by dint of repetition, compurgators to their own consciences. Such men, fresh from London and De Lolme, study no strange constitutions. If the institutions of a foreign country diverge from those of their own, by so much they set them down inferior. They pull out their guage and mark the difference. They carry the statutory standard in their pocket, and, like the inspector of weights and measures, will not hear an argument upon its correctness. It has the Tower stamp upon it, and that is enough for them.

America has had her share, and more than her share, of such supercilious visitants. Simple and unsuspecting as youth always is, in nations as well as in individuals, somewhat elated too, perchance, and vain with her recent acquisitions of the emblems of empire, with all the virtues and many of the weaknesses of a young heir just come to his estate, she received and welcomed them with open-hearted confidence and affection. She looked not for a spy upon the sanctity of her household gods in the stranger that sat within her gates. She scarce supposed that the hand of a clumsy servant, like the claws of the harpies, could utterly mar and defile the feast which honest hospitality had provided. She lacked, as she well knew, the diadem and the mitre, the sumptuousness of crown and crosier, and the dim aisle of the lofty cathedral. But she had patriotic hearts, (one above all whose very ashes are holy,)—a history which, though brief, was not altogether ignoble, since it comprised the annals of self-denying virtue and of that courage which knew how to vanquish the intensity of human passion by the lofti