is felt and acknowledged. 'Dear,' exclaimed an eloquent and fervent metropolitan divine, whom we heard some months since, and withal the water stood in his eyes as he spoke, 'dear are the fruits of earthly toil, and struggle, and affliction! I would not but have known sorrow. It gives an inexpresssible interest to the memory of the past. It consecrates, it endears, human experience. Amidst its dark tissues, the golden threads that are interwoven, shine brighter; and the splendor of virtue, and the radiance of joy, are heightened by the contrast. The future of man could not be drawn in full relief and beauty, but upon that dark ground. The Man of Sorrows was made to appeal to the heart of humanity, through all ages, in the voice of patient, meek, atoning agony; and the grand symbol of his religion is the instrument of agonizing crucifixion.'
Sir Walter Scott, in his diary, speaks of a Scottishman o' the Hielands,' who kept a case of razors for the use of those guests who unexpectedly spent the night in his house. One trial of the instruments abundantly sufficed. They never desired to stay with him over night but once. Now we can appreciate the moral of this anecdote right clearly, and so can an eccentric correspondent of ours, to whom we shall, of course, give no clue. He broke into our sanctum one morning, about a year ago, and being seated, took from his pocket a 'screed of verse,' which he said he had written in the short space of half an hour, and which he considered the best thing that ever came from his pen; and perhaps it was. It was a rude sketch of a country scene, correct enough, literally speaking, but without a spark of poetic life in its whole compass. 'I shall bring you,' said he, 'a piece as good as that, every time I come to see you, which I shall not fail to do, whenever I am in town.' A felicitous thought struck us. We handed him a long 'Baalam' poem, more dry and uninteresting even than his own, and desired him, as an especial favor, to peruse it, and pass judgment upon it, for our behoof; and we took care to add, that if his opinion cöincided with our own, we should be happy, owing to multifarious duties, to have him render us a similar service, whenever he did us the honor to call with his own productions. He commenced the article, and the perspiration trickled from his low and narrow forehead, as he read. Our notions of the piece, it is not necessary to say, were congenial with his own. Hence it is somewhat remarkable, that we have neither seen nor heard from him since. Exploring an old drawer, lately, we came across the verse in question. Its theme was kindred, in very many of its features, with a recent sketch from the eminent pen of Bryant, in the 'Democratic Review;' and it is for our really kind-hearted correspondent, that we quote a few lines, to show him the difference between poetry and mere forced rhythm, without life or nature. Our American Wordsworth is speaking of a fountain in the forest:
