were prefixed the peculiarly appropriate titles of "Matches Lighted by Divine Fire," "Hooks and Eyes for Believers' Breeches," and "The Sixpenny worth of Divine Spirit,"* it must be the case of our modern author, that his title page should as nearly as possible correspond to "those painted representations exhibited by the keepers of wild beasts; where, in general, the picture itself is more curious and interesting than the inclosed animal."

Among the many evidences, were it necessary to adduce them, that this is a marvel-loving, and a marvel-seeking age, is the almost universal attention which the subject of transcendental philosophy has excited among our own countrymen, and our transatlantic brethren, within a few years past. It was not long since its very name was almost unknown in the land, and the brain-torturing fancies-the sublime and awful mysticism-and the inexplicable theories of mental and moral science, were for the most part confined to the day-dreamers of the German universities, and the few French enthusiasts who were among the first to be attracted by the air of wildness and mystery with which it is invested. Now there are few even of our staid and sober Yankees, who are not so far hurried on by the tide of innovation, as to be prepared to fall into ecstasies with a new emanation from the prolific brain of Carlyle, or to enter into a discussion of the existing points of difference between the Eclecticism of M. Cousin, and his opponents of the German school. The Sartor Resartus, and the other publications of its talented and brilliant author, are as familiar to the people as household words, and doubly captivating, from the fact that the strange and uncouth garb, in which the most burning thoughts are occasionally presented, catch the eye, and amuse by their very oddity the casual reader, who is too indolent or too obtuse to penetrate through their roughness of exterior to the truth which it conceals.

Nor are our own countrymen slow to follow the example of the English Transcendentalists:-the doctrine is a seductive one, and the ability and talent which have been enlisted in its support, call forth crowds of imitators. In the language of one who has ministered at the inner shrine, "Let the great soul incarnated in some woman's form, poor and sad and single, in some Dolly or Joan, go out to service, and sweep chambers and scour floors, and its effulgent day-beams cannot be muffled or hid, but to sweep and scour will instantly appear supreme and beautiful actions, the top and radiance of human life, and all people will get mops and brooms;" from all which we may infer that the genus homo, like another to

* D'Israeli's C. of Literature.

"Essays," by R. W. Emerson.

which it is closely allied by the naturalists, is greatly given to imitation: spite of his contempt for foreign notions, Jonathan is seldom unwilling to undertake any enterprise that presents so good an investment of his literary capital as this, and a sufficiency of time having elapsed to enable him to make the requisite improvements on the original, which it is his custom to engraft on every thing that passes under his hands, from a wooden clock to a body of divinity, the press teems with volumes illustrative and demonstrative of the beauties of the system, and the heads of half the good citizens of our "literary emporium" are turned with vain attempts to fathom

"The dark, unbottomed, infinite abyss,

Or through the palpable obscure, find out
Their uncouth way,"-

in the face of more extravagances than ever entered into the head of a German poet, or flitted through the wonder-seeking brain of a professor of the far-famed academy of Laputa; and should the science progress with as rapid strides as for a few years past, we shall probably see, at no very distant period, the Transcendental Spelling Book superseding that of our venerable lexicographer, or the whilom professor of penmanship changing his advertisement to a proffer of imparting proficiency in the new philosophy, "in the short space of twelve lessons."

And yet, among the many who affect to admire and embrace the glorious truths which Transcendentalism unfolds, it is very doubtful if the tenth part could be found capable of clearly "defining their position," by setting forth to their own satisfaction and that of their fellow men, the exact nature of their belief; and it is still more improbable that any two could be selected, even from these favored few who have lifted the inner veil, whose opinions did not conflict one with the other. The very nature of Transcendentalism forbids a reduction of its principles to the cold standard of philosophy or reason. Its disciples are taught to look within themselves for an elucidation of all the difficulties which the system presents. "The Sphinx," says Mr. Emerson, "must solve her own riddle," and as this riddle is presented under an infinite variety of forms, its solutions are consequently endless: thus conflicting opinions serve rather to establish than to invalidate truth. "Up to this height, gentlemen, does our intelligence upon the wings of ideas-to speak with Plato-elevate itself. * * * * We are now above the world, above humanity, above reason. We are no longer in nature and in humanity; we are only in the world of ideas."* It would be idle therefore for us who are "without

*Cousin's "Introduction to the History of Philosophy," pp. 132, 158.

the gates," to speculate upon the mysteries which appear not yet to have been fully revealed even to those who have penetrated the adytum, and we must be content with admiring the skill which has been displayed in disguising the oft-exploded errors of ancient paganism, beneath the almost impervious garb of a mysterious and obscure phraseology-in forcing into an unnatural alliance with these, the wild extravagances and baseless sophistries of the more modern Idealists, in fashioning the heterogeneous materials, thus gathered together, into a novel and ingenious system,-investing it with all the charms which the glowing imagination and ardent enthusiasm of its founders could afford-and in deluding the world into a belief that there really does exist beneath all this quaintness of style, this glowing imagery, this rhetorical flourish, and this occasionally dazzling brilliancy of thought, a veritable something, which is, by its universal adoption, to finally regenerate and restore mankind, reuniting the nations of the earth in a common bond of brotherhood.

And now, reader, it is full time to reward your patience, by putting an end to these lucubrations, which have already extended much further than was at first contemplated: suffer me, however, to drop one word to the Aristarchi, yonder, who, as their eyes have run over these pages, have waited with some impatience for a fit opportunity of propounding the question, which is now just on their lips, "Cui bono?" Let me say to each, "You had better not give it utterance-it would be an idle exertion of your critical acumen to seek for its answer from the materials before you, for it is really one to which I myself have as yet discovered no very satisfactory solution. The ambition of securing a place in the pages of your Magazine, first induced me to take up my pen, and having allowed the ideas that presented themselves to my mind, or flitted through my brain, to be transferred to paper, in their crude state, without much correction or revision, I dare scarcely look behind, in an attempt to retrace the zigzag course which I have pursued, and having reached a convenient stopping-place, can only say in extenuation, in the words of the great Reformer at the Diet of Worms, Here I am, I can do no otherwise!'"

L.

MOONLIGHT IN AUTUMN.

THE bright moon glides o'erhead, how silently!
Now floating through the fleecy clouds,
She girds their edges with a fringe of light;
And now the vapor that enshrouds

Her crescent form is a silver tissue:

Anon, across the starry sky,

Burst from her cloudy mantle-queen of night,

She glides in silent majesty.

Upon the bosom of yon tranquil lake,

She rests in motionless repose;

While pouring on the plain its shower of pearls,
In bright cascade the streamlet flows.

O'er the golden foliage of the grove,

Faintly glimmers the white moonshine;
It plays on the leaf and the purple fruit
Of the dark cluster-covered vine.

"Tis the middle of the night; the elfin train
Seek the bank of the crystal lake,
They form their canoes of the gaudy leaves,

And steer them in the moon-beam's wake.
Or, in gay carouse round the old oak tree,
With bounding heart and nimble tread,
They trip it, heedlessly and merrily,
O'er the faded violet bed.

Earth's Fairest Daughter! well the tribes of old

Paid worship at thy silver shrine,

And the young virgins hymned their choral songs, Beneath the clear and pale moonshine.

For thou art beautiful! thy brilliant form

Glides o'er the wreathed and spangled sky, Like some fair spirit, wrapt in snowy shroud, That in a passing dream fleets by.

I love thee, for thou art the queen of love!
There's magic in thy gentle beam,

That from its throbbing fountain sends the blood
Along the vein in thrilling stream.

Oft have I roved beneath thy placid beam,

With her I love, the varied grove

The lawn, now sparkling with the Evening's tear,— The mead-discoursing still of love.

How silent all around us! the light breeze
But trembles o'er the yellow sheaves!
The soft murmur of the rill is mingled

With the slight rustle of the leaves!

The moon-the stars-the clouds, in silence glide;

While like a maid in mood of mirth,

Who gazes on her sleeping lover's face,

The Moon smiles on the silent Earth!

Δ.

VISIT OF THE PICKWICK CLUB TO THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.

"Strange countries for to see, see, see,
Strange countries for to see.”

OLD SONG.

A MONTH or two since, I was induced to visit the White Mountains in search of health and amusement. The trip is at any time a delightful one. The scenery throughout the "Granite State" is far more romantic and interesting than that of any other section of New England, and although the inhabitants are somewhat uncouth, and bear no slight resemblance to what we naturally imagine the antediluvians to have been, still their honesty, hospitality, and good nature are justly proverbial. Stage traveling over a rough country, although an insufferable bore to the over-luxurious and effeminate, is yet the very thing to dissipate nervousness, dyspepsia, and the "hypo." Besides, the very atmosphere of a stage-coach breathes sociability; the moment we enter the door we feel a kindly yearning for all the inmates. Their fortune seems for the hour or day intimately linked with our own, and however ill-tempered we may feel, we find it impossible to quarrel with those connected with us by so close a tie-that of community of interest. Thrice fortunate is he whose coach-companions are agreeable, intelligent people. And thrice fortunate was I on the trip in question. For upwards of four hundred miles I traveled in the bonds of uninterrupted intimacy with the most illustrious, the PICKWICK CLUB! Aye, I ate at the same table and rode on the same seat with them! The object of their journey will be seen hereafter. Undoubtedly, kind reader, thou art on the tip-toe to hear something new of these eminent personages. Thou would'st fain know if their historian, Boz, has rightly described them, or if, as is usually the case with contemporaneous biographers, he has not done injustice to their merits. Be assured then, and I take upon