and sustain a system of rigid and uncompromising criticism, unbiassed by any feeling of national prejudice, any consideration of personal popularity, by the partiality of private circles, or the favor of general society. It shall also be our aim, when recommending works of merit, to exercise as much discrimination as as possible, in so relatively estimating and classing them, that injustice may not be done to those of rare merit, by sharing the praise, which is only their due, with writings that have a feebler claim to favor. And this in defiance of the economical custom of having but one standard of praise amongst us, and dubbing every clever writer 'a Bryant,' or 'an Irving.'"
We know not whether the last word, when it escaped our lips, operated suddenly like the presence of a talisman upon the enchanted objects around us; or whether the spell had been gradually breaking, and while, with our eyes cast upon the table, we were thus tasking the indulgence of our illustrious hearer with these egotistical details, details, he had slipped away, and withdrawn with him the mystic influence that so unaccountably changed the aspect of every thing around him. But upon looking up, as usual, in the pauses of our conversation, for his customary nod of encouragement to proceed, those never to be forgotten features were no longer there. The phantom-guest had gone more mysteriously even than he came. His place—his chair—was vacant. His chair?—it was no longer his chair. What! could that meagre, miserable, spindle-shanked thing, have ever supported a form of his dignity? Could—but how did he withdraw? Through a carved panel, as is the wont of ordinary ghosts? There was none there—the sombre shining oak had again given place to tawdry paper. Did he take the favorite road of his patron, St. Nicholas, and vanish up the chimney? Alas! that noble fire-place was gone, and a patent sweep alone could perforate the cramped vent of the narrow grate by which it was superseded. Through the window? Who ever heard of a spectre passing out of a window? No—sufficient for us that he was gone—gone entirely—gone we fear forever: and so completely had each object around us recovered its vulgar every day appearance, that we might, without much difficulty, have convinced ourselves that the whole affair was but a dream, if not some grosser illusion—such as is said to assail the waking senses of persons of a melancholy temperament, living much in retirement—but that, upon examining the apartment for some trace
