to something within the soul, awaken the spirits to dances of breathless rapture, and bring tears of mysterious tenderness to the eyes, like the enthusiasm of patriotic success, or the voice of one beloved singing to you alone.  Sterne says that if he were in a desert he would love some cypress.  So soon as this want or power is dead, man becomes a living sepulchre of himself, and what yet survives is the mere husk of what once he was.

* * * * *

This and a fragment, with a character of Mr. Canning, by Sir James Mackintosh, are the transcendentals of the volume; as are the tale—­The Half-brothers, by Mr. Banim, with an Ossian-like plate of the heroine; The Sisters of Albano, by Mrs. Shelley—­Death of the Laird’s Jock, by the author of Waverley—­and Ferdinando Eboli, by Mrs. Shelley, with Adelinda, a plate, by Heath, on which we could feast our eyes for a full hour.  Next, a sketch, by Theodore Hook, part of which will serve to vary our sheet:—­

THE OLD GENTLEMAN.

“To-morrow morning,” said my friend, “when you awake, the power will be your own; and so, sir, I wish you a very good night.”—­“But, sir,” said I, anxious to be better assured of the speedy fulfilment of the wish of my heart, (for such indeed it was,) “may I have the honour of knowing your name and address?”—­“Ha, ha, ha!” said the old gentleman; “my name and address; ha, ha, ha! my name is pretty familiar to you, young gentleman; and as for my address, I dare say you will find your way to me some day or another, and so, once more, good night.”—­Saying which, he descended the stairs and quitted the house, leaving me to surmise who my extraordinary visiter could be.  I never knew; but I recollect, that after he was gone, I heard one of the old ladies scolding a servant-girl for wasting so many matches in lighting the candles, and making such a terrible smell of brimstone in the house.  I was now all anxiety to get to bed, not because I was sleepy, but because it seemed to me as if going to bed would bring me nearer to the time of getting up, when I should be master of the miraculous power which had been promised me.  I rang the bell; my servant was still out; it was unusual for him to be absent at so late an hour.  I waited until the clock struck eleven, but he came not; and resolving to reprimand him in the morning, I retired to rest.  Contrary to my expectation, and, as it seemed to me, to the ordinary course of nature, considering the excitement under which I was labouring, I had scarcely laid my head on my pillow before I dropped into a profound slumber, from which I was only aroused by my servant’s entrance to my room.  The instant I awoke, I sat up in bed, and began to reflect on what had passed, and for a moment to doubt whether it had not been all a dream.  However, it was daylight; the period had arrived when the proof of my newly acquired power might be made.—­“Barton,”