1831.] The Perplexities of a Book-Worm. 399 



pose Professor Wilson on a stag-hunt in the mountains to challenge 

 Scott to a discussion on legendary superstitions to criticise foot to foot 

 with Campbell the rhythm of Gertrude of Wyoming to hunt Roscoe 

 into a corner on Italian literature to puzzle Moore and Beckford with 

 orientalisms and even, for he was then alive, to discuss the laws of the 

 critical craft with Gifford himself; these were amongst the feats I pro- 

 posed on launching into the ocean of living wit and so, unmooring my 

 anchor of misanthropy, I prepared to leave my chamber of loneliness for 

 ever ! 



I entered it for the last time, fortified in my resolution. Behold me 

 arranging my books platonically : gazing upon them with an effort at 

 frigidity that was painfully ridiculous, and endeavouring to whistle 

 away the throbs that heaved in my bosom. There is not a human being 

 who has not had an attachment at one period or another for some dumb 

 memorial of times gone by j who has not carved upon some tongueless 

 thing an epigraph of the heart's devotion ; a tree a house a room 

 linked to the memory by a train of mysterious associations. And such 

 were the bonds that endeared my solitary apartment to my feelings. 

 They were not to be snapped in an instant they could not be violated 

 without the bitterest pangs. 



Do not smile at this passion for books and their sanctuary. It is the 

 concentration of the affections, and not their object, that makes them 

 strong. 



I gazed idly for a time upon the mass of volumes before me they 

 grew dizzy in my eyes a sickness slowly rose through my frame 

 I felt it gaining on me as the dark tide covers the receding strand I 

 summoned all my strength rushed out into the daylight of the world 

 and was some miles on my way to London before I became fully con- 

 scious of what I had done. * * * 



THE VOICE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 



To me it was a rich delight 



On summer flowers to gaze 

 To watch the sailing moon at night, 



And bask beneath her rays 

 To see the dancing sparkle bright 



That in the diamond plays : 

 With varying raptures, all their own, 

 These charmed my sight my sight alone. 



Oft have I heard the whispering breeze, 



And loved its melody 

 Invoked fond Echo's mysteries, 



Hung on her soft reply 

 Or caught, 'mid listening ecstacies, 



The night-bird's pensive cry : 

 With varying raptures, all their own, 

 These charmed mine ear mine ear alone. 



Thee have I seen, thou gifted Maid ! 



Ay, heard, and gazed on too ; 

 To flower moon gem, where brightness played, 



The eye's best love was due. 

 Breeze echo bird of darksome glade, 



The ear alone could woo : 

 But, ah ! 'tis thine 'tis thine alone 

 To charm the eye and ear in one ! C. 



