a kaleidoscope. A mile horizontally on the surface of the earth does not carry you one inch toward its centre, and yet it is in the centre that the gold mines. are. A man who truly knows Shakspeare, only, is the master of a thousand who have squeezed the circulating libraries dry.

Do not fail to see Trenton. It is various-voiced. It is the playing of lutes on the moonlight lawn—as Stoddard delicately sings. It is well to listen for it in the pauses of the steam-shriek of our career. For if once your fancy hears its murmur, you will be as the boatman who catches through the roar of the Rhine, the song of the Lorelei, and you too, will be won to delicious repose.

"But thou, who dids't appear so fair

To fond imagination,

Dost rival in the light of day,

Her delicate creation:

Meek loveliness is round thee spread,

A softness still and holy:

The grace of forest charms decayed,
And pastoral melancholy.

"The vapors linger round the height;

They meet-and soon must vanish:
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine,-
Sad thought, which I would banish,
But that I know, where'er I go,

Thy genuine image. Yarrow,

Will dwell with me,-to heighten joy,
And cheer my mind in sorrow."

V.

Biagera

AUGUST.

HE Rapids before Niagara are not of water only. The Cataract is the centre of a vortex of travel-a maelstrom which you

scarcely suspect until you

are swimming round in its intense swiftness, and feel that you are drawn nearer and closer, every mo

ment, to an awful and unimagined Presence.

The summer-bird of a traveller who skims up the Hudson dippingly, wending Niagara-ward, if he has never seen the Falls, and has heard of them all his life, loiters along his way, quite unimpressed by the anticipation of his bourne, whose image has lost