her lot. The light and loveliness of earth had no charm for her to win her hopes from heaven. There, she would often say, was garnered up her heart; there she should meet again him, who could not come back to forgive her; there she should never hear the bitter word, or feel the unkind look; there both their spirits would dwell in an atmosphere of love that would know ro change for ever.

She often told me that John spoke of me in the days of their happy trustfulness with strong and manly affection. That in all their dreams of the future I was mingled; that she was to be to me a sister, and he a brother; and I shed such tears at her simple narration as I never can shed again. She never blamed my cousin; she never revealed the unhappy cause of their alienation, and whatever it was, the grave keeps the secret well; you may listen to the waving of the tall grass that grows where she sleeps, but never a syllable comes thence. She had no love or longing for life, although she knew that each day brought her closer to the grave. A little lock of John's hair was always pressed in her hand, and she would keep her eye fixed upon it, saying, as a pang would rack her now feeble frame-"It is no matter, it brings me nearer to

biro."

I have seen in a lake the ice grow thinner and thinner beneath the waxing beat of the sun, dissolving every hour, wasting imperceptibly away into the water, which bore it up, and of which it had its birth. So, day after day, beneath the light and warmth which flowed upon her from heaven, the earthly fetters of her

The sobs of my uncle alone broke the stillness.

"Come nearer, Hugh, dear, for I think I am dying. Kiss me," she murmured very softly.

I bent my lips to her cold pale brow. As I did so, I heard my cousin's name trembling upon her tongue, and, with those dear syllables faintly uttered, she died-died with his name upon her lips, who was the first, it may be, to greet her as she entered the eternal gates.

Few ever knew what beauty and loveliness faded away from earth that day. Few ever stand where her weary heart is hushed for ever; but for me, the flight of that pure spirit left a void that time has never filled; for me earth has no spct so sacred as Mary Linley's grave.

SOME Common ideas are so nearly alike in their bolder outlines and grosser qualities, and at the same time so intangible and evanescent in their nicer shades of meaning, and, withal, each of them in itself so complex and multiform in character; and more baffling than all, so closely allied to each other; that it is a severe task of discrimination to fix clearly in the mind distinct and separate notions of them. It is sometimes more difficult still to express, when so fixed, those distinct notions in intelligible language. However, there is no safety, and but little profit either, in discussion or dissertation, unless you define before you begin: nay, not unfrequently, where definition begins difference and discussion end. Then "there is the rub;" how to define precisely; how to express that definition in such language as to exclude everything foreign, and yet to comprehend with perspicacity everything cognate: in short, how to include everything proper, and yet include nothing too much.

Purely intellectual ideas are never easily defined. It is no light matter to avoid a confusion of such ideas with others closely resembling them, and to fix the particular notion singly before the mind. Then, too, our conception of them takes much of its hue and shape from our individual organization. Besides, the stubbornness of language will not bend at choice to embrace exactly the nicer shades of meaning we would express, without the hazard of expressing too much. All who have attempted discussion of subtle distinctions of this sort have painfully felt this embarrassment. Hence, definitions of such abstract ideas as Wit, Humour, Poetry, and the like, although exhibiting great intellectual acumen and power of thought, coupled with copiousness and felicity of phrase ology, have generally been deemed unsatisfactory.

Genius, as we understand it, is the result of a peculiar and felicitous combination of mental faculties, moral qualities and physical organization. The combination is peculiar, inasmuch as it differs from every other known combination, in possessing some positive and subtle attributes that none other has, and it is felicitous, as it excels every other combination by its productions in a marvellous way. It is

not Taste, nor Wit, nor Humour. It is not Common Sense or Facility. Finally, it is not Talent. It may co-exist with each and all, or it may exist essentially independent of either. Now we apprehend there is but little practical danger of confounding either of these, except talent with genius. The difference between them is comparatively easy of illustration, but they are hardly susceptible of separate definition.

Genius may be said to be the ability to conceive, comprehend, and reproduce truth, beauty, and harmony: talent is the ability to explore, gather up, and re-construct truth, beauty, and harmony. Genius is creative ability: talent is executive ability. Genius, in its nature, growth, and power is "subjective:" talent, in its nature, growth, and power, is "objec tive." Genius is speculative and visionary: talent is practical and matter-of-fact. Genius revels in the ideal and possible: talent delves in the real and the actual. Genius conceives and invents: talent finds and remembers. Genius seeks by its own inward power to develope what it finds within itself: talent seeks foreign aid, and aims at a foreign object. To adopt a word, genius is intransitive: talent is transitive. In their works, genius is easy and natural: talent is fastidious and accurate. Genius, in its results, has a quality of unexpectedness, and produces wonder, as wit produces surprise: talent shows you its clue long before it attains the end. One might almost say genius is the instinct, talent the reason of the understanding. Genius "substitutes intellectual vision for proof," and has the "clear conception out-running the deductions of logic:" talent moves by regular processes of thought. The operations of genius are à priori, from cause to effect: the operations of talent are à posteriori, from effect to cause. Talent is sagacious appreciation; genius is intuition. Talent ascends; genius transcends. Talent is empirical and experimental; genius is transcendental and prophetic. Nothing can be proved to exist," says Talent: "I know that I exist," says Genius. Thus Talent arrives at a conclusion: Genius has a revelation.

The moral characteristics, if one may be pardoned the expression, in consider ing this intricate subject, are broadly different in genius and talent. Genius

obey the law as it is written; and as it deviates, so it errs.

Perhaps no man was so peculiarly qualified to expound these distinctions as S. T. Coleridge. Certainly, in a few words he has thrown a flood of light upon the matter. "Genius," says he, "finds in its own wants and instincts an interest in truths for their TRUTH'S SAKE." Again: "To possess end in the means, as it is essential to morality in the moral world, and the contradistinction from mere prudence, so it is in the intellectual world the moral constituent of genius, and that by which true genius is contradistinguished from mere talent." Even as the true moralist, "does right" not from the paltry and contemptible motive that 'honesty is the best policy," but simply because it is right, so the man of genius developes the great power within him from a law of its being, and because he finds that power there. In another place he says: "Genius is originality in intellectual construction; talent is the comparative facility of acquiring, arranging, and applying the stock furnished by others and already existing in books, and other conservatories of intellect." And in still another place: "This is a good gauge of genius, whether it progresses and evolves or only spins upon itself." These are golden sands, scattered here and there in the bed where the mighty current of his intellect flowed. I do but gather them up; I am not worthy to fuse or fashion them. In the republic of the mind, genius is the source of power; talent is the executive or ministerial faculty. Genius invents and developes; talent collates and executes. Genius must not be confounded with tact, or even cleverness: these are but phases of talent, or its ready satellites, as imagination and sensibility are phases of genius. Genius is a fiery particle," deriving its light and colour from within itself, and, like a burning coal, shines in the dark talent; borrows its lustre from without, and is seen only where there is light. Genius, too, leans to the poetical, and has a quality of feminineness, of which mere talent, hard and prosaic as it is, is deficient: indeed, genius is more common among women, while talent is more common among men.

In matters of judgment, I know not whether genius or talent is the more reliable; either, taken separately, can scarcely be trusted. The ideas of men of genius do so come in flashes-the blaze

suddenly lighting up some part of a subject, like torchlight in a cavern, glaring with excess of light, thickening darkness as it repels it-that the understanding may be deceived. Hence may come partial views, eccentricity and sudden inconsistency, though with all real sincerity. Now, with men of talent the light is more steady, but there may be a deficiency of light.

Genius is versatile, strikes out a new spark at every blow, is inexhaustible, and, like nature, never repeats itself. Talent elaborates, perfects, and polishes its ideas; but they are finite, have "iteration in them," and bear a family resemblance. Genius is the child of impulse; talent is born of the will. Genius is irregular, unsteady, and, "studious of new things;" talent obeys an iron master, and its action wears and frets a channel in which it flows the more easily and powerfully, as it is sustained and assisted by the momentum of habit. Genius has no habits.

Genius without talent finds itself much at a loss how to get on in the world. Its peculiarities are oftentimes a bar to its progress. Talent without genius generally gets on bravely, and succeeds oftentimes from the absence rather than the presence of qualities; as a man with a conscience will starve sometimes, where a man without a conscience will thrive and fatten: nay, its very peculiarities, or rather want of peculiarities, remove many a stumbling-block from its path; for as we know, genius is full of tremulousness and sensibility, while talent is full of nerve and energy. Genius sees so much and feels so much, that without talent it is timid in action, and hesitates. It "considers too curiously." To borrow from "Hamlet" the great dramatist's type of genius, we may say it doubts by

——“ Thinking too precisely on the event; A thought which quartered, hath but one part wisdom,

And ever three parts coward :"

and finally puzzles itself into inaction. But, on the other hand, with talent, whatsoever its hands find to do, that does it, with all its might: nay, to give the whole picture, not unfrequently it "rushes in where angels fear to tread."

Besides, genius often derives more strength from the heart than the head. It is prone to be warm, tender, profuse, spontaneous, gushing, full of sympathy, and careless of itself and the morrow. It soothes and loves the weakness of humbler

minds, and by all these outlets is constantly diverted from its purpose, and its time wasted: the tide in its affairs is not "taken at the flood," and opportunity is lost. Talent borrows little of the heart: is cold, prone to formality and elaborateness: is calculating, burns steadily, nurses its reputation, husbands its resources, spreads every inch of canvas, makes everything "tell:" nay, more, is cutting, sarcastic, and hates cordially the weakness of feebler men, and spurns them. Genius is fitful and erratic; talent is the essence of equanimity and imperturbableness. Moreover, genius groans at the curse of labour, and shudders at practical details; while talent likes to work, and cheerfully masters all practical details. Then genius is proud in the simple consciousness of possession; but talent glories in the

manifestation of superiority. And, too, genius is full of doubleness and a riddle; is mystic, and walks in a cloud; but talent is single in purpose, plain, practical, no greater or other than it appears. Genius is exclusive, and dreads lest its household gods should be jostled and profaned by strangers and barbarians; but talent has no household gods. In short, to sum up the whole matter, genius should have talent combined with it, and talent should have genius, to enable either to act with independence and compensating energy and success in the affairs of life. To quote from Coleridge: "Genius must have talent as its complement and implement, just as imagination must have fancy; in short, the higher intellectual powers act through a corresponding energy of the lower."

Ir is quite possible for a man, or woman either, to be too handsome. We do not pretend that it is an original remark, springing from our own brain, because our conscience forces us to acknowledge the working. Nevertheless, it is an observation which few make, and fewer still will confess to be true. Therefore we intend to enter the lists in behalf of ugliness. From this declaration, it will doubtless be concluded that we are some old bachelor, ugly enough to "frighten the crows," as country children say; but decidedly not the case.

Having thus given out our thesis, it is our intention to illustrate it by a talean "ower true tale," as the annuals would write; and, moreover, we judge it best at once to acknowledge that it is a love-tale-nothing but a common-place love-tale; no wonderful self-devotion, no "heroism in humble life," will be found therein; therefore, gentle reader, it is useless to seek it. And, after this exordium, we will begin.

Philip Heathcote lived in a country town, where he was the beau par excellence-the Adonis, Apollo, Narcissus, of almost every young lady from fifteen to fifty; and, to tell the truth, Philip was indeed very handsome.-We have no intention of describing categorically his eyes, nose, and mouth, because beauty is entirely a personal matter. It is seldom

BEAUTY.

that two people agree on the subject. Each of them has his or her ideal of perfection, and judges others to a certain extent as they approach to, or diverge from, this image, formed in cach mind. Ugliness becomes beauty, and beauty ugliness, according to one's own fancy. There is no glamour so complete as that of a

loving eye. Therefore, let each fair one picture our young hero as resembling her own, and she will like Philip Heathcote all the better.

Philip was one of those persons who seem born with talents for everything. His conversation was winning enough to "wile a bird off a bush ;" he was a man of "infinite humour," as Shakspeare has it, and possessed that ever-welcome quality of making the dullest party merry when he entered. Then he was the best dancer, the best singer, the best fluteplayer, for miles round; wrote poetry, composed songs, drew likenesses-in short, Philip was a pattern of perfection. His praise rang through the country round; none were insensible to it, save one, the very last he would have wished to be so-a young girl, named Margaret Lester.

With that peculiar contradiction which characterizes love, young Heathcote's heart-if he had a heart, which some doubted-was given to one entirely the opposite of himself. Quiet, unassuming,