fool or very much of a martyr who would dare it. If a man have a cherished thought or hope, it is wrapped up in a little song--it is itself a song. Samson's strength was hidden in a tress of hair; and so the strong men, the world over, who eschew poetry and music as elegant trifles, have hidden their weakness in some sweet air of old-the sesame to feelings they have survived-the prophet's wand to the rock they fancy seamless. Find that out, and they are even as other men-touch that, and their hearts lie in two pieces before you

There is one, who never was born, a sort of man at-arms to Minerva-at least so he seems to thinkwho made his debut into breathdom in boots and a beard, armed to the teeth, as Richard was, and for a like intent. Did you ever see him try to smile on childhood, without a lingering apprehension that he night play Saturn (see his godship's "bill of fare") with the little innocents? Look at his eye, cold and gray as November, and his brow, latticed with wrinkles, as if to cage "some horrible conceit." Time never ploughed such a "bout" as that. Who ever eard him sing a song, or whistle a tune, or even drum with his fingers at musical intervals? Who ever caught him assaying a pirouette or reading poetry

heard him call any thing lovely or charming that couldn't be checked," and journalized, barreled, baled, or bundled? No body. And yet he is an excellent man, upright as a mountain pine, regular as a chronometer, but some how or other, the place where his heart ought to be, is walled up-and taken altogether, he resembles a January night-very fair and very cold.

Now look at him as he is—a cast-iron specimen of the cui bono school, and tell me, was he ever in love? Did the light of his eye wax warmer once, and his tones grow deeper and softer, do you think? Get a clerkship with him, and turn over old ledger "A." If you find any account of Miss -'s investment, or

Miss

-'s venture; if you find the transaction duly booked, rely upon it, he was.

Is there not, then, in all that heart of his, one rocky cleft, wherein a flower may cling, in sweet memorial of a gentler time? Does there not linger round those walls of stone, some echo, orphaned now, of a joy "lang syne"--another heart responsive to his own? Is there, indeed, no hidden fountain, or no wand to wake it? Ah! yes. Of all the drums that beat life's reveille, there is not one, where'er it be, thrilling the fair billows of Caucasian bosoms, or

'neath the dusky vestment of Ishmael's desert sons, that always beats the dead-march of the past-some thoughts are sleeping there, "dewy with tears."

over.

one?

66

Try him with an old song as he sits thoughtfully by the fire, between sunlight and lamplight—one of the sweet old songs our mothers sang. Hum it softly There's an impatient gesture. That's not the Another, then. He does not seem to hear you, but he does. Perhaps he looks fierce-perhaps 'accompanies" you with tongs and fender—perhaps seizes a quill with nervous emphasis, as if to make a pen. No matter-sing on. He has cut it to the feather, ruined a best "Holland." You have him now. You will play sunrise with this Memnon, by and by. "Where did you learn that?" says he, with a dreadful scowl. You need not tell him; he neither wants a reply nor waits for it. ""Tis a silly thing, and none but silly people sing-don't you know it?" Then comes a silence. Slowly he resumes the longforgotten thread of thought. "It's a long time ago, since I heard that foolish song-twenty years—the evening before I left home"-then he had a nestling place once-"my sister sang it"—and a sister, too— "and she-is dead now. Do you know the whole of it?" he asks abruptly, turning to you-"sing it,

then." He listens awhile, grows uneasy, lights a lamp, opens a ledger, and pretends to write. "Pshaw.” he mutters; he has written his sister's name across the page. He seizes his hat, turns toward you with a face at least a lustrum younger, and says, "there, that will do," and slowly leaves the counting-room. Now look at that ledger's page. It is blotted. Did he blot it? He, whose books are a fair transcript of his character-precise, unquestionable, and without stain or erasure! Yes, a blot, but not of ink. You have made a better man of him--started the dormant mechanism of his heart again, and set the little handful of irritable muscle playing as of old. And an old-fashioned tune-words in a primer, notes no where-that old-fashioned people sing with old-fashioned voices-alas! for that-trembling like a fastfailing fountain—such a melody has done all this.

'But the charm is attributable to association.' Is it? Approach the cage of the fiercest of his race— a Hyrcanian tiger, and softly play a sweet air upon your flute, but it must be a good one, for though tigers have little talent for music, they have a great deal of taste. He lays his huge head against the bars of his prison; his stormy breath is lulled by the magic potency of sweet sounds; he is a kitten again;

and yet, the time when, wrapped in a little striped blanket of his own, he slept in the mountain cave, with the tempest for his lullaby, has very little to do with the “charming.”

And the bright serpent-will my fair reader pardon the illustration?-that ribbon of living satin-Satan?-how does he,

"That rolled away loose as the sea-wave,

sweep up his coil

Surge upon surge, and lay his gorgeous head
With its fix'd, sleepless eye i̇' the centre ring,
The watcher of his living citadel,"

when the Hindoo charmer breathes a tune upon the thrilled and slender reed? How does he arch his glossy neck, and quiver to the strain, his tongue like a lambent flame moving the while in mute accompaniment, thoroughly exorcised in the name, and by the spirit of harmony!

"I cannot silence such a voice as that," said the human tiger, and he returned the steel gilded for the Singer's bosom, uncrimsoned to his own-an offering snatched from the altar of blood, and transferred to the altar of song.

Yes, there are strings in every heart-don't you believe it?-that are not all worsted-that were not