TORY.

TACITUS wrote, (says Luther,) that by the ancient Germans it was held no shame at all to drink and swill four and twenty hours together. A gentleman of the court asked, "How long ago it was since Tacitus wrote this." He was answered," Almost 1500 years." Whereupon the gentleman said, "Forasmuch as drunkenness is so ancient a custom, let us not abolish it."

An old ruinous church which had harboured innumerable jackdaws, sparrows, and bats, was at length repaired. When the masons left it, the jackdaws, sparrows, and bats came back in search of their old dwellings. But these were all filled up. "Of what use now is this great building?" said they, come let us forsake this useless stone-heap."

66

German.

HOW TO WRITE A GOOD BOOK.

66 HE THAT BURNS MOST SHINES MOST."

A LOVING heart is the beginning of all knowledge. This it is that opens the whole mind, quickens every faculty of the intellect to do its work—that of knowing; and therefrom, by sure consequence, of vividly uttering forth. Other secret for being "graphic" is there none, worth having; but this is an all-sufficient one. See, for example, what a small Boswell can do! Hereby, indeed, is the whole man made a living mirror, wherein the wonders of this ever-wonderful universe are in their true light (which is ever a magical, miraculous one) represented and reflected back on us. It has been said, "the heart sees further than the head." But indeed without the seeing heart, there is no true seeing for the head so much as possible; all is mere oversight, hallucination, and vain superficial phantasmagories, which can permanently profit no one. Here too may we not pause for an instant, and make a practical reflection? Considering the multitude of mortals that handle the pen in these days, and can mostly spell, and write without glaring violations of grammar; the question naturally arises, How is it, then, that no work proceeds from them bearing any stamp of authenticity and permanence, of

worth for more than one day? Ship-loads of fashionable novels, sentimental rhymes, tragedies, farces, diaries of travel, tales by flood and field, are swallowed monthly into the bottomless pool; still does the press boil: innumerable paper-makers, compositors, printers' devils, bookbinders, and hawkers grown hoarse with loud proclaiming, rest not from their labour; and still, in torrents, rushes on the great array of publications, unpausing, to their final home; and still Oblivion, like the grave, cries, Give! give! How is it that of all these countless multitudes, no one can attain to the smallest mark of excellence, or produce aught that shall endure longer than the "snow-flake on the river," or the foam of penny-beer? We answer, because they are foam: because there is no reality in them. These three thousand men, women, and children, that make up the army of British authors, do not, if we will consider it, see any thing whatever; consequently have nothing that they can record and utter, only more or fewer things that they can plausibly pretend to record. The universe, of man and nature, is still quite shut up from them; the " "open secret" still utterly a secret; because no sympathy with man or nature, no love and free simplicity of heart, has yet unfolded the same. Nothing but a pitiful image of their own pitiful self, with its vanities, and grudgings, and ravenous

hunger of all kinds, hangs for ever painted in the retina of these unfortunate persons; so that the starry all, with whatsoever it embraces, does but appear as some expanded magiclantern shadow of that same image, and naturally looks pitiful enough.

It is in vain for these persons to allege that they are naturally without gift, naturally stupid and sightless, and so can attain to no knowledge of any thing; therefore, in writing of any thing, must needs write falsehoods of it, there being in it no truth for them. Not so, good friends. The stupidest of you has a certain faculty; were it but that of articulate speech, (say in the Scottish, the Irish, the cockney dialect, or even in “governess-English,”) and of physically discerning what lies under your nose. The stupidest of you would perhaps grudge to be compared in faculty with James Boswell; yet see what he has produced! You do not use your faculty honestly your heart is shut up-full of greediness, malice, discontent; so your intellectual sense cannot lie open. It is in vain also to urge that James Boswell had opportunities, saw great men and great things, such as you can never hope to look on. What make ye of Parson White of Selborne ? He had not only no great men to look on, but not even men, merely sparrows and cock-chafers; yet has he left us a

biography of these, which, under its title, "Natural History of Selborne," still remains valuable to us; which has copied a little sentence or two faithfully from the inspired volume of nature, and so is in itself not without inspiration. Go ye and do likewise. Sweep away utterly all frothiness and falsehood from your heart: struggle unweariedly to acquire, what is possible for every God-created man, a free, open, humble soul: speak not at all in any wise till you have something to speak: care not for the reward of your speaking, but simply, and with undivided mind, for the truth of your speaking; then be placed in what section of space and time soever, do but open your eyes and they shall actually see, and bring you real knowledge, wondrous, worthy of belief; and, instead of our Boswell and our White, the world will rejoice in a thousandstationed on their thousand several watch-towers, to instruct us, by indubitable documents, of whatsoever in our so stupendous world comes to light and is ! Carlyle.

"And yet," says he again, "What of Books? Hast thou not already a Bible to write, and publish in print, that is eternal; namely,

A LIFE TO LEAD.