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things in the querulous tone of thankless repining. Truth, however, is truth, whether pleasant or unpalateable; and we challenge any one who has made the actual experiment of seeking for happiness amid worldly pleasures, to deny either the correctness of the outline, or of the deep filling up shadows of L. E. L.'s faithful delineations. Such a votary, if he allowed himself to be sincere, must acknowledge the truth of the representation which tells him that
"One word may read his heart,
And that one word is utter weariness."
Melancholy in sooth are such representations, in the sense in which most people use the term, as a synonyme for any sentiment or feeling which bears the impress of right reflection,—of serious, yet serene emotion. When such persons are compelled to a moral introversion, to a turning from the glittering exterior of earthly things, to fast-fading impressions on their own minds,—from the gay dissonance of outward but hollow mirth to the still solemn voice of their own hearts, echoing "All is vanity!"—then do they accuse of needless melancholy the cause that has been instrumental in arresting for a moment their thoughtful attention. Well will it be if at length they acknowledge its salutary influence; for is not such a monition calculated to teach the important lesson that happiness is not of the earth, earthly, but can only be realized in the pursuit of objects which bear the image of the heavenly? By implication at least it must be so, since a vivid representation of the hollowness and deception of earthly vanities, founded on the conviction and experience of their instability and insufficiency as a foundation whereon to rear the superstructure of abiding hope, must tend
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