gratification of analyzing our enjoyment, which we cannot do but by sacrificing it. That we cannot at the same time both explain and enjoy in their full extent these pleasures, is so evident as scarcely to need illustration. Sit in some crowded "Temple of the Muses," where "Music and sweet Poetry agree," and watch an accomplished artiste as she assumes a well-known character; read thought and feeling in every action until you are filled with sympathy for the fate of Norma, or indignation at the reckless Borgia. Then raise your glass and trace back each feeling to its source. The illusion is gone, you no longer see the unfortunate Norma, but one who walks and stands and sings like any other female. Now she moves her head or hand, and the suppressed applause, or the perceptible thrill of pleasure which runs through the house, tells that the motion was not made in vain. Amateur performers excepted, you are the only person in the room who knows what caused the sensation, and you alone have failed to sympathize with it. In order to see its hidden springs you stood above the reach of its current. Or stand before the Greek Slave and enjoy that beauty which, when analyzed, you can only admire: leaving to anatomists to speculate whether, if it were like Pygmalion's statue endowed with life, it would die with consumption in a few days, (as a popular lecturer once asserted that it would,) you will be very willing to enjoy the general effect without troubling yourself about the particulars. This principle of losing the general effect by attention to unimportant particulars is exemplified by the course pursued by too many students, especially in the study of the Classics. And we say this with a full appreciation and regard for a high standard of accurate scholarship; we only think that the student's energy is too often misdirected. He loses the beauties of style and sentiment in the search for some philological distinction, or in investigating a quibble of the critics. He gives more attention to the accents of some modern grammarian, than to those of Homer. And with the fear of the professor's "X" before his eyes, he pursues a course of study fitted rather to prepare him for the duties of a German lexicographer, than for the privileges of an American citizen. Surely the raven in the fable, who dropped the cheese to hear the monkey's flattery, was not the only, nor the last, individual who has exchanged a real for an imaginary good. The servant is not greater than his master; and the work of the critic is to correct and perfect that which shall be much more enjoyed by others. VACATION JAUNT. ON the 11th of last August, we extricated our Senior dignity, all covered with dust and cinders from the cars at Whitehall, (the Skeensborough of ante-revolutionary fame) and proceeded to the Park House, under the double oppression of a burning sun and a heavy carpet-bag. Learning from the landlord that my friend lived several miles out in the country, and receiving instructions to "cross the bridge, keep round the hill and foller the road," I set out upon my journey. I had not proceeded far when a very small man, in a very small wagon, drawn by a very small horse, passed me at a very great rate. Just then his caputal protection was removed by a gust of wind, and whilst it was being handed to him by a young damsel who volunteered her services, I came up with the establishment. Perceiving me to be a good-looking young man in rather bad-looking circumstances, with no hesitancy in the benevolence of his heart, but considerable in his enunciation, he called out: "Ge-ge-get in and ri-ri-ride," in a tone of voice and general looseness of manner which indicated that he was pretty far gone as a spiritual medium. Hastily balancing in my mind the probabilities of being spilled out and thrown down into Lake Champlain, (for the road was quite narrow, the bank precipitous, and my Jehu rather too spiritualized to dread an encounter with things material) I concluded that my load was a stern matter of fact, whilst getting my neck broken was only a probability. I was justified by the doctrine of chances in getting into the wagon. My friend seemed overjoyed at having some one to witness his skill in driving, as well as the unequaled speed of his pony, and was determined to put both to the severest test, which he did to his evident satisfaction, and to mine also, as I assured him by venturing the remark that he had quite a fast horse. "Darned ef I haint, stranger; he can go a mile in 2.24, I'll show you when I find my whip." Assuring him that I was fully convinced of that, I concealed his whip from him. Leaning upon my shoulder in an affectionate manner he began with the first questions in the Yankee "longer catechism." say, stranger, what's your business? you're a blacksmith ain't you?" "No." "Well, you're a house jiner, ain't you?" "No." "Yes you are though. "Sal," darn you, get up here, I can whip you if I can't whip your mistress." With difficulty I persuaded him that my road turned off to the right— refused a pressing invitation to take supper, (11 a. m.) and promising that should I remain in the country I would "larn him to be a housejiner," I took an affectionate and thankful farewell of him, philosophically ruminating upon the speed and risk of young America, and painfully experiencing the uphill trudging of old Fogy: safe, certainly, but awful slow. After spending a few days in Whitehall, I embarked upon the "United States" on Champlain, for Rouse's Point. The historic associations of this lake in connection with the surpassing beauty of its scenery, render it sacred to the heart of every American. It was discovered by Samuel Champlain on the 4th of July, 1609. After founding the colony of Quebec, he proceeded up the St. Lawrence with a number of French and Indians on an exploring expedition, entered the Iroquois and sailed up it until checked by the rapids at Chambly; from here he proceeded in canoes accompanied by about sixty Indians and two Frenchmen, and reached this lake on the 4th of July. It is said that from time immemorial this lake and its vicinage had been the battling ground of the Mohawk, the Iroquois and the Algonquin. Neither could maintain his claim to it for any length of time, and as game was abundant, the deer chase often ended in the bloody struggle with the more savage animal, man-the only animal that makes a wholesale destruction of his species. The exploration of this lake was initiated with a battle between Champlain and a large war party of the Iroquois ; and for more than a century it was the theater of the military operations of France and England. The Englishman left the hearth-stone of his bonny island home, his gray-haired mother and his blue-eyed lass; the Frenchman left the vine-clad hills of his native land, and after traversing the ocean and unpecpled forests, they met to grapple in deadly embrace by this quiet lake, and mingle their blood in its sparkling waters. Ticonderoga, standing upon its shores, was the first trophy of our own revolutionary war; and those grand old mountains, which stand in their mute sublimity the guardians of its waters, echoed back the thunder of the gallant McDo nough's guns on that quiet Sabbath morning which witnessed the crowning glory of the war of 1812. To speak fully of each point of interest on this lake, would be to write no small portion of the history of the French and Revolutionary wars. Almost every island and rocky head-land calls up thrilling incidents con nected with her early struggles. Ticonderoga, Crown Point, Shelburn Bay, Valcour Island, Cumberland Head, &c., &c., are cherished spots to the American heart. They belong to the history of our country, and though nothing now remains but mouldering walls, or the rotting hulks of sunken vessels to bear testimony to the gallant deeds they once witnessed, yet a balo of glory will ever surround them, sufficient almost to gild even the accursed name of Benedict Arnold. After passing Crown Point, the lake begins to spread itself out into a broader surface, and imperceptibly we lose sight of the "pomp and glory of war," in the contemplation of the beautiful panorama which stretches out before the delighted eye. On the east side the Green Mountains, in a continuous range, stretch along the horizon. On the west are the Adirondacs rising peak above peak, until their distant summits seem to support the heavens. Before us lies the lake, its surface dotted with emerald isles, and its glad waters dancing in the sunlight. Night closed in upon us just below Plattsburg. Slowly and proudly the sun sank behind the Adirondacs; a few lazily drifting clouds blushed to catch his parting smile, then faded away with his dying light. Cautiously the shadows began to creep out from their hiding places in the deep gorges and caves of the mountains to take possession of the field deserted by the light. One by one the stars began to take their places above and beneath. "For every wave with dimpled cheek, That leaped upon the air, Had caught a star in its embrace, And held it trembling there." It was Saturday night. It seemed like holy time, so calm and solemn was the death of that day. Just forty-three years ago, on just such an evening, the gallant little fleet of McDonough was moored in a line from that head-land to yon island, awaiting the carnage of the morrow; and as the Sabbath, God's emblem of peace, dawned upon these mountains, Downie's advance was descried rounding yonder point. And now on that island repose the ashes of the dead; the gentle murmurings of restless water and the sighing of those dark pines their only requiem, they await the peal of that trump which will call them to a tribunal where the sword is no longer the arbiter of justice, and where war stripped of its glory will appear wholesale murder! Gradually twilight deepens into night, and now the lights are seen from the wharf at Rouse's Point. This point is about one mile from the United States line. From here we take the cars for Montreal via St. Johns. The examination of baggage by the Custom House officers is a mere form, although the increased facilities for smuggling silks, &c., inaugurated by the introduction of hoops into the expansive economy of female arrangements has caused them to be more vigilant. I soon found myself aboard "Her Britanic Majesty's" train for the "Island City." Messrs. Editors:-Should you find a man asleep on the track of the Western Road, "the lightning train due in one minute," or should you see an equestrian on the brink of a yawning chasm, and his horse should be seized with a strange proclivity for standing upon his fore-legs and looking down, into the abyss below, you would say that the situation of both was truly critical; but what, I ask, is there in the case of either to compare with that of a young man of tender susceptibilities, crowded into the narrow limits of a car seat with a blooming widow of twentyfive, the lamps feebly flickering, the passengers yawning? Such, gentlemen, was the situation of your correspondent. Let me say to you in the kindness of my heart, beware of widows! Blue stockings of almost any age, and blushing, soft eyed damsels of sixteen, have each their witching wiles, their peculiar charms, and must be "handled with care;" but again I say unto you, beware of young widows. From Mrs. Wadman, who squeezed herself down upon the corner of uncle Toby's bench, so that he might see what it was in her eye, which was nothing but one lambent, delicious fire shooting from every part of it into his own-down to the last one who mourns for another like the dear departed, they all perfectly understand every avenue to your heart, and will capture it either by an irresistible onset, or an unsuspected surprisal. My companion was the relict of a Methodist preacher—had been a widow three years—was married when fifteen-thought she "was very foolish to run away from school and marry so young," but did not inform me how long she was a wife, so that, as is usually the case, I could only get an approximation to her age. Her husband was killed by a steamboat explosion near Montreal. Poor fellow! he got a regular blowing up that time, but I did not dare insinuate that it was probably not the first one. We parted at Saint Johns, both regretting that her baggage was checked to |