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all a peaceable mouldering or tumbling down from mere rottenness and decay; whether slowly mouldering or rapidly tumbling, there will be nothing found of real or true in the rubbish-heap, but a most true desire of making money easily, and of eating it pleasantly. A poor ideal for "reformers," sure enough. But it is the fruit of long antecedents, too; and from of old our habits in regard to ‘reformation,” or repairing what went wrong (as something is always doing), have been strangely didactic! And to such length have we at last brought it, by our wilful, conscious, and now long-continued method of using varnish instead of actual repair by honest carpentry, of what we all knew and saw to have gone undeniably wrong in our procedures and affairs! Method deliberately, steadily, and even solemnly continued, with much admiration of it from ourselves and others, as the best and only good one, for above two hundred years. Ever since that annus mirabilis of 1660, when Oliver Cromwell's dead clay was hung on the gibbet, and a much easier "reign of Christ" under the divine gentleman called Charles II. was thought the fitthing, this has been our steady method: varnish, varnish; if a thing have grown so rotten that it yawns palpable, and is so inexpressibly ugly that the eyes of the very populace discern it and detest it-bring out a new pot of varnish, with the requisite supply of putty; and lay it on handsomely. Don't spare varnish; how well it will all look in a few days, if laid on well! Varnish alone is cheap and is safe; avoid carpentering, chiselling, sawing and hammering on the old quiet house; dry-rot is in it, who knows how deep; don't disturb the old beams and junctures: varnish, varnish, if you will be blessed by gods and men ! This is called the constitutional system, conservative system, and other fine names; and this at last has its fruits, such

as we see..

It is true there is in such a population, of itself, no hope at all towards reconstruction of the wreck of your Niagara plunge; of themselves they, with whatever cry of "liberty" in their mouths, are inexorably marked by Destiny as slaves; and not even the immortal gods could make them free-except by making them anew and on a different pattern. If amid the thickest welter of surrounding gluttony and baseness, and what must be reckoned bottomless anarchy from shore to shore, there be found no man, no small but invincible minority of men, capable of keeping themselves free from all that, and of living a heroically human life, while the millions round them are noisily living a mere beaverish or dog-like one, then truly all hope is gone. But we always struggle to believe Not. Aristocracy by title, by fortune, and position, who can doubt but there are still precious possibilities among the chosen of that class? And if that fail us, there is still, we hope, the unclassed Aristocracy by nature, not inconsiderable in numbers, and supreme in faculty, in wisdom, human talent, nobleness and courage, who derive their patent of nobility direct from Almighty God." If, indeed, these also fail us, and are trodden out under the unanimous torrent of brutish hoofs and hobnails, and cannot vindicate themselves into clearness here and there, but at length cease even to try it then indeed it is all ended; national death, scandalous "Copper-Captaincy" as of France, stern Russian Abolition and Erasure as of Poland; in one form or another, well-deserved annihilation and dismissal from God's universe, that, and nothing else, lies ahead for our once heroic England too. THOMAS CARLYLE.

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COMAL AND GALVINA.

"MOURNFUL is thy tale, son of the car," said Carril of other times.- "It sends my soul back to the ages of old, and to the days of other years.-Often have I heard of Comal, who slew the friend he loved; yet victory attended his steel; and the battle was consumed in his presence.

"Comal was the son of Albion; the chief of a hundred hills. His deer drank of a thousand streams.-A thousand rocks replied to the voice of his dogs. His face was the mildness of youth.-His hand the death of heroes.One was his love, and fair was she! the daughter of mighty Conloch.-She appeared like a sunbeam among women. Her hair was like the wing of the raven.—Her dogs were taught to the chase.-Her bowstring sounded on the winds of the forest.-Her soul was fixed on Comal. -Often met their eyes of love. Their course in the chase was one.-Happy were their words in secret.—But Gormal loved the maid, the dark chief of the gloomy Ardven. He watched her lone steps in the heath; the foe of unhappy Comal !

"One day, tired of the chase, when the mist had concealed their friends, Comal and the daughter of Conloch met in the cave of Ronan.-It was the wonted haunt of Comal. Its sides were hung with his arms. -A hundred shields of thongs were there; a hundred helms of sounding steel. Rest here,' he said, 'my love, Galvina; thou light of the cave of Ronan! A deer appears on Mora's brow.I go; but I will soon return.'-'I fear,' she said, 'dark Gormal my foe; he haunts the cave of Ronan! I will rest among the arms; but soon return, my love.'

"He went to the deer of Mora.-The daughter of Conloch would needs try his love.-She clothed her white

sides with his armour, and strode from the cave of Ronan ! -He thought it was his foe.-His heart beat high.-His colour changed, and darkness dimmed his eyes.—He drew the bow. The arrow flew.-Galvina fell in blood!-He ran with wildness in his steps, and called the daughter of Conloch.-No answer in the lonely cave. -'Where art thou, O my love?'-He saw, at length, her heaving heart beating around the feathered arrow.-'O Conloch's daughter, is it thou?'-He sunk upon her breast.—

"The hunters found the hapless pair. He afterwards walked the hill—but many and silent were his steps round the dark dwelling of his love.—The fleet of the ocean came. He fought; the strangers fled.-He searched for death along the field.-But who could slay the mighty Comal! He threw away his dark brown shield.—An arrow found his manly breast.-He sleeps with his loved Galvina, at the noise of the sounding surge!-Their green tombs are seen by the mariner, when he bounds o'er the waves of the north." OSSIAN.

THE REMUNERATION OF MEN OF LETTERS.

FROM THE "NEW YORK TRIBUNE."

THERE is something extremely vulgar and entirely unworthy of the enlightenment of the age in the widemouthed wonder with which the pecuniary success of men of letters is discussed. Some observers can never understand how it happens that a man with no visible means of support can sit down at a table, scribble over a few sheets of paper, and actually sell the manuscript for cash in hand. Why, anybody could do that. It is done so easily. It is accomplished in a very few hours. Six

pages of copy, and then unlimited cakes and ale! Now, if that talented individual, who goes by the name of anybody, supposes that it is such an easy matter to write, not great works of art, but the least leading article in a respectable daily journal, we advise the said individual to try the experiment. So difficult is it to do even this work well, such peculiar ability and training does it require, that we do not believe there are fifty men in the United States whose services in this department we should think worth having, even if we could have them for an old song. A writer might be immense in essays, powerful in sermons, delicious in copies of verses, and ingenious in various ways, and yet the veriest bungler in the construction of leading articles. He might, indeed, be made something of by training and by patience, but what time have we for training young aspirants, and how can we turn our establishment into a school for apprentices in the art of writing? We seek the men who already know how to write, and we employ them, if we can make it worth their while to engage with us. It is pretty hard to see why a man who gives up his whole time to the instruction and entertainment of the public should not be paid quite as well as if he supplied the community with butter, and beer, and beef, and cheese, and greatcoats, and boots, and other like merchandise. There is no howl of public dissatisfaction when a trader makes a great sum by astute manipulation of tea and tobacco; he is thought to be a clever person, and his fellow-creatures wish him joy of his luck. He may get more simply by writing his name, than all the authors in England and America by the production of innumerable folios; and too often he is the first to express his surprise at the success of those writing fellows, and to wonder at the folly of the world which rewards