Without challenging, therefore, an undue consequence to these “ ɛnŋ atɛgoɛrta,” let it suffice to say, the opinion expressed of their importance at least deserves examination. It must ever be true, that the many cannot ascend by the steps of a reasoning process, to first principles, and deduce their rule of action for specific cases. Their opinions must be taken from those whom nature, by the gift of superior parts, has designated as leaders; and it may be assumed as a maxim, that of those writers and speakers who have to do with the multitude, they will commonly be most successful, who embody their sentiments (whether of truth and wisdom or their counterfeits) in a form the most pleasing and easy of apprehension. How often has sophistry foiled the strokes of logic by a pointed saying! How often has the disputant, who would yield nothing to an argument, been silenced by an apophthegm! How often does the judgment stand balanced in painful hesitancy between two opposite courses of conduct, until the remembrance of some accredited maxim turns the beam! Every man's experience will supply examples of this kind; and if closely scrutinized, they may probably convince him that such weapons are chiefly brought into requisition in order to force a passage for error into the hearts of men.

And the phenomenon is not more certain than its philosophy is obvious. It belongs to our nature to admire beauty in all its forms; hence it is that a poetic simile or a bold figure of rhetoric, by inducing a pleasant surprise, lulls our vigilance, and steals a march on the judgment, ere we are aware of it.

To bring these observations to the test, let us take an example. The ingenious author of Lacon, combating the idea that the general tenor of a man's writings may be safely taken as an index to his moral character, says that "if the devil were to write a book, it would be in praise of virtue." Very possibly it might; still the apophthegm does not prove the author's position. To show this, let the appeal be made to facts. Who, then, after reading their works, could hesitate to pronounce Cowper a devout and humble Christian? or Moore, a libertine? or Byron, a proud, rebellious spirit, spurning the restraints of religion, and hugging to his breast the galling chains of sin? Had the sentiment that "virtue is slavery, and vice the only freedom," been imputed to Byron in a distinct proposition, he would doubtless have repelled the charge with indignation. But could any one at all familiar with his writings-even in the absence of other proof-doubt that this principle was the grand rule of his life?

Again: "Quaint expressions, flourishes of wit, and labored periods," says Matthew Henry, "only serve to gild a bad cause; the gold of a good one needs them not." Is this true? Does it comport with our notions of the fitness of things, that truth should jog along in a homely farm-wagon, while error rides royally in a gilded chariot? Adopt this policy, and it will soon be

found that the native beauty and dignity of truth are ineffectual to save her from neglect and obloquy, while error-the painted harlot, glittering in gold and jewels,-will dazzle the eyes of the unthinking crowd, and lead them captive at will.

Take another to the same purport. "Truth," says the adage, "is most adorned, when unadorned." Could there be a more ingenious paradox? First, the mind is arrested by an apparent contradiction, but immediately, by an effort of memory, bringing into view some case which seems to verify the sentiment, it is seized at once and reposed in with undoubting confidence, as a universal proposition.

Now the adage is true, taken in its true intent. In speaking and in written composition, simplicity is certainly an excellence. But in saying this, it is not intended that words should be rigidly held to their literal, naked meaning. A composition may abound in figures, and yet be as truly and effectively simple, as if it had not one. Yet how often is this adage perverted to the defense of a coarseness and threadbare poverty of style, which disgusts every reader of refined taste or of the least sensibility to literary beauty!

Still, garish ornaments become not truth. The remarks just made are not designed to shield from censure that class of writers who (if I may borrow an illustration from the arts) would dress the Apollo of Belvidere in the costume of a dandy, or the Venus de Medicis in the tawdry finery of a courtezan. I only mean to intimate that there is such a thing as making "truth visible in the form of beauty;" as arraying her divine shape in apparel which, so far from hiding her exquisite symmetry and grace, will set them off to even better advantage, and, instead of repelling even the most fastidious, fix the gaze and charm the hearts of all.

The examples cited will serve to illustrate the subject. It might be interesting, in pursuing it farther, to inquire into the nature and extent of the influence of the numerous proverbs and wise saws in use among the common people. But I will wait to see how this tit-bit is relished, before I offer another.

PHILO-LACON.

EPILEG OMENA.

WELL, reader, with cheerful step we haste to greet thee, and serve up for thy keener appetite our usual desert. For the omission of this treat in our last, we have an abundant apology in the fact that we could more than satiate thy hungry cravings by so rich a thanksgiving dinner. To every New Englander we are sure this variety was twice acceptable and every way appreciated. And to all others, a good dissertation on a custom so ancient, and endeared to every American by so many associations, could not but be welcome.

But without further preface we must on ;-so readers, one and all, without the least reservation, we most heartily wish you all the pleasure that can be derived from the remaining holidays.

And how are they passing with thee, reader?-didst thou listen to that splendid performance of Beethoven, Christmas eve? It would have done honor to the "Handel and Hayden." And then the array of sparkling beauty in our galleries! Ha, ha! we wish Christmas would come every week.

For reflections suited to the close of the year, we refer our readers to

THE LAST NIGHT OF 1838.

WHAT potent charm hath this unusual hour,
Which hangs a pall of gloom around the heart?
What magic spell—what overwhelming power,
That bids all light and mirthful joy depart?

Why ceased so suddenly that raging storm?

Why changed the roaring winds their fearful note ?
And moaning now, as if in grief forlorn,

Come, like sad dirges, from the hills remote?

Ah! well may nature feel the mighty power-
Well may the mind be filled with saddest gloom;
For this is lonely contemplation's hour:

Now stern reflection summons from the tomb,

The long forgotten deeds of by-gone days,
The sins and follies of our early youth;
And memory slowly threads the mighty maze,
Expelling darkness by the light of truth.

We've reached a goal in life's sad pilgrimage;
Another year is hasting to its end;
And many a troubled thought and dire presage,
O'er its dark grave in solemn silence bend.

All nature too with man doth sympathize,

With mournful black she hangs the erst blue sky;

Now rolling clouds on clouds majestic rise,

And deeper yet the folds of darkness lie.

The portent of this hour creation feels,
Prophetic of the final end of time,

Through every part the saddening influence steals,
The earth, the air, the sea, to mourn combine.

But human thoughts the future troubles not,

The past, the dreadful past, doth chill men's hearts;
To some hath disappointment been a lot,

To some disgrace, or keen affliction's smarts.

Perhaps ambition's flame has seized the soul,
And fired the mind for glory and renown,
Or the warm heart has owned sweet love's control,
Firmly in strong affection's fetters bound.

But honor's devious paths are paths of pain;

O'er steep ascents-through dismal vales they lie.

But few do glory's radiant temple gain,

While most are left to wander and to die.

And soft affection is a tender vine,

That yields and bends to every passing gale;
Till round pure friendship's tree its shoots entwine,
E'en then, alas, too oft the prop proves frail.
As now we gaze from this high eminence,
This lofty mountain in the path of time,
The winding way we've come beholding thence,
Scanning with tearful eye the varying line;

So when we tread eternity's vast shore,

Will life's whole journey rise at once to view;
Then searching truth its sunlight rays will pour,
And unchained memory light her torch anew.

G.

We most heartily sympathize with our readers, in imprecations upon the printer, for not fixing his types closer, and giving us more room. Our splendid article, upon which we had so much prided ourselves, is cut down to these two or three square inches, and wishing our readers delightful New Year's calls, and a pleasant vacation, we are compelled to close with only a very brief sketch of a scene in a late editors' meeting."

All were present. Phaon had thrown himself back in his chair with his usual air of consequence. Fadladeen had got the better of Morpheus, and was sitting with eyes and ears distended, as if apprehensive of some gathering storm. Boniface was carefully conning over some manuscripts, to detect the authors by their chirography. Tubal, with more than usual restiveness, began muttering about the small number of notices to correspondents in our last, and inquired the cause.

Og (always on hand for a rencontre) promptly replied, "that this had been accurately ascertained, and that it was not from the fact, that there were but few communications, but that Fadladeen yielding to his indomitable propensity," of sleeping of course," interrupted Tubal,-"no, of filching," continued Og," took some half dozen poems which have not been seen until since our last meeting. Whether he meant to transcribe, and present them as his own, or because he was so captivated with their excellence I cannot determine."

During this exposure, Fadladeen looked any how but the white man, and was about to commence his défense, when Boniface moved that a few stanzas be read from each, that we might decide on their merits, and, above all, discover the taste of our critic of critics. The president called to order, and commenced :

"Traveller in —.

"It was a dark and dismal night,

Nor ought of moon or star was seen;
The wind was raging in its might

As ever has in December been."

"Majestic!" cried Phaon," what a description! Homer and Milton outdone! Surely Fadladeen has a taste beyond cultivation."

"Ode to my Tobacco Bor."

"No wonder he hooked that," cried Tubal.

"When Raleigh first this heavenly poison found,
He little thought 'twould spread the earth around,
Still less that I the Muse of love should woo,

To sing its praises while I sing of you;

But so it is-time on its fated course,

Is always going like a carman's horse,

Though rather faster."

"That's a fact," roared Og," and it has outstripped the author. His communication would much better become the dark ages.'

The remaining business was transacted with closed doors.

For remainder, see cover.

THERE are men, who praise those, while living, respecting whom, when dead, they are silent or speak only for the purpose of traduction. On the contrary, there are those, who not only concede nothing to the merits of others, while living, but are even active in disparaging their character; and upon the same persons, when dead, they are forward in the bestowment of praise.

The motives which prompt to these opposite courses of conduct, are obvious. A sense of obligation for favors received, a dependence upon the patronage of others, a knowledge of only the better traits of their character, or a viewing their principles and measures, only in the light of the present, and not proving them by time and trial, often induce to the expression of real or professed opinion of the excellence of living men. But death weakens the sense of obligation which binds the beneficiary to the benefactor; it breaks the stay upon which the dependent has rested for support; it unveils the darker, and before unseen, traits of character; and time and trial often shew the unsoundness of principles, which were before thought valid, and the folly of measures, which had been esteemed wise. The reasons for the entertainment of a favorable opinion have ceased to exist; and those of an opposite kind have now taken their place.

On the other hand, a jealousy of increasing power, and a wish to check its advance; an envy of present greatness, and a desire to lessen or obscure it; or a dislike of new policies and principles, which have not yet been ratified by the public approval, prompt men to depreciate the worth of their cotemporaries. When, however, those, who have thus been vilified, have run their career, and the grave has closed over their remains; it has also closed over those baleful feelings, which found a residence in the breasts of their detractors. Jealousy has closed her green eye to ope no