the ULTIMUS or end of all things. There was yet a more abstruse mystery to be explained, which was accomplished by dividing the word into two parts, and separating the s in the middle from the two extreme syllables, making a kind of pentameter, the word consisting of five letters; and this letter, intermedial s, being in the Hebrew alphabet called sin, was thought to imply that Jesus should purify us from all wickedness."-Witte vs. Wisdome, or a Panegyrick on Follie by D. Erasmus. Even later writers than the monks have not disdained to exercise themselves in this laborious play upon words, as may be proved by a reference to one of the many epitaphs, which "Old Mortalities" have done well to decipher; if not for their intrinsic value, at least for the sake of those who possess a kindred spirit with Leland, the good old father of English antiquities. It is engraved on a stone which covers the remains of a royal beauty, and if the sentiment was not one from which modern feelings revolt, it might perhaps be more of a favorite. It reads thus: "Non redolet, sed olet quæ redolere solet." Verse has sometimes been employed to assist the memory in reference to some particular subject, by reducing the terms of explanation to the most concise and simple forms, and in the following epitaph from the Latin Anthology, the author has been at so much pains to compact and condense, that it seems absolutely impossible to express the same ideas in a less number of words. 'Pastor, Arator, Eques, pavi, colui, superavi, To this may be added a couplet really beautiful, as well as mythologically correct. "Terret, lustrat, agit, Proserpina, Luna, Diana. Ima, Suprema, feras, sceptro, fulgore, sagitta." Our own language possesses some lines in the shape of a lampoon, which are not altogether destitute of resemblance to the two preceding. "Stair's neck, mind, wife, sons, grandsons, and the rest, Are wry, false, witch, pests, parricides, possessed." And these will recall to every intelligent mind, Milton's celebrated description of Satan's flight: "O'er bog, or steep, through straight, rough, dense, or rare, And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies." Eloquence as well as poetry has also contributed its share of misguided exertion, in which labor has undermined taste, expression thwarted its own object, and the solid charms of propriety have been sacrificed to the false glare of artificial show. St. Augustine, whose writings often contain "thoughts that breathe, and words that burn," has been more than once seduced by the meretricious ornaments of a corrupted style, and sunk the character of orator in that of quibbler. In the midst of an animated apostrophe, when all the feelings of the writer should glow with the ardor of passionate excitement, who could have expected the following combination of quibbling expressions; -" ut turpiter atrum Desinat in piscem mulier formosa supernè !" "O dies præclara et pulchra, nesciens vesperum, non habens occasum, ubi summa et certa securitas, secura tranquillitas, et tranquilla jocunditas, et jocunda felicitas, felix æternitas, æterna beatitudo, et beata Trinitas, et Trinitatis unitas, et unitatis deitas," &c. Poets, even poet laureates, have degenerated into mere rhymsters, as well as orators into quibblers; and instances of the former are found not only in a foreign language, but among the "select works" of British poetry. Old John Skelton stands at the head of those who believe in the doctrine of Hudibras, "One line of sense and one of rhyme, I think's sufficient at one time;" though without entering into the merits of his thoughts, in the introduction to his "Boke of Colin Clout," he is candid enough to admit, that -"his rime is ragged, Rusty and mooth eaten." In the verse in which he states it, he no doubt proves his proposition; but it may gratify some readers to have a little more, as it will be rather difficult to procure the "Boke" for themselves. A single quotation will conclude the long, and perhaps to some tedious list. It comes from Hawes' "Pastime of Plesure," and if it possesses any sense at all, it lies exceedingly deep-certainly beyond our comprehension. "Measure measurying, measuratly taketh The above examples suggest a few reflections. We live in a polished age. Grace, ease, and beauty, are blended in the style of our leading writers of prose. Their faults arise rather from an excess of refinement, than its absence, and of course are the more readily pardoned. Poetry has unbound herself from the shackles of art, wit, and the loathsome principles of the Satanic school, and seems about to be reinstated, by the assistance of a Wordsworth, and a Talfourd, on her former throne of good sense, truth, and natural simplicity. The full blaze of literary light pours upon us, and we are at a loss to conceive, how a corrupted taste could at different periods of the world's history, have gained so universal an ascendency. Yet so strong have been its fetters, and so riveted, that the colossal strength of a Shakspeare, was required to raise the standard of the drama-of a Milton, to "weave his garland with the lightenings" of popular vengeance, and to overleap the bounds of prejudice to trust his fame with posterityand of a Johnson, to prepare the way of less vigorous candidates for literary distinction. These mighty champions were successful. But how many whose powers were inferior to the attempt, have fallen-victims to the persecution of their enemies-unknown and unregarded defenders of the Republic of Letters! Literature as well as life, and painting, has its light and shade. The midnight heavens are not filled with a single huge star. Ten thousand are scattered through their depths, to shine still brighter from contrast with the surrounding darkness, and please still more with the variety of their lustre. Thus the great works of genius appear only here and there, and the faults of a corrupted taste, and the mistakes of conceited ignorance, constitute the shade which enables their light to be seen to the best advantage. JAM SATIS. 267 ΤΟ THEY bid me never speak again, And dearly were those moments bought, How oft I've gazed upon thy face, Nor dreamt that pride's unfeeling power, They bid us part, because thou'rt poor! Ah liule do they know, That I thy love shall value more Than gold can e'er bestow. Farewell my love! this faithful heart To thee alone is given, And since we now on earth must part, STORY OF A LIFE. As I was walking towards the close of day, in a somewhat meditative mood, accident led me into the grave-yard. It was evening, and the rich tints in the western sky, showed the lingering influence of the parting sun; while the balmy breathing of the air around me, the perfect silence and repose of nature, the solemnity of the place, combined to inspire thoughts of a more sombre hue than those which usually possess my breast. As I moved along, I passed the tomb of one who had been the friend of my early days. His was a character compounded of strange materials-though he had a generous heart and warm feelings, and possessed talents which fitted him for any sphere, yet the meteor-light of fancy, and the deceptious glare of imagination too often led astray his judgment, and blinded his principles. His con ceptions were never half realized, his plans were never half matured, his hopes were never half fulfilled, for fancy had taken the reins from reason, and the imagination had usurped the empire of the understanding. Still, although he disappointed his friends, and gladdened the hearts of his enemies by his eccentric course, he ever possessed enough of virtue to secure the lasting affection of all who knew him -and while friends lamented his inconstancy of feeling, and sighed over the failure of his attempts, even enemies could not deny that he possessed genius and talents, which, if properly directed, would enable him to shine as an ornament of his profession and of his country. He sent me once a short history of his life which I will transcribe here, for it may improve those who have feelings and an imagination like his. I will only premise, (for the sake of clearness,) that in it he speaks of himself in the third person, and under the name of Alonzo. He begins thus, "You ask with much solicitude after Alonzo. I do not wonder at it, but if you have vanity, let me tell you, that you are not alone in your admiration of him. The greatest have received from him lessons of wisdom and the best have listened to his lessons of morality, yet is he neither wise nor moral. In truth, he is a compound of inconsistencies, (though not an amalgamation of them,) at one moment you see an exhibition of giant strength, at the next of infant weakness; at sometimes you hear the wisdom of a sage, and close on its heels treads the folly of an idiot; one sentence will give you the wit of Lucian, and the next shall be enveloped in more than Boeotian dullness. "But enough of generals, let us come to particulars. I see you are interested in the man and his character may afford you instruction. I have known him from the cradle; and can give you his history almost from the dawn of his existence. "He was the youngest of five children. The mother who bore him brought him forth in pain and sickness and sorrow-the early hopes of her youth had been blasted,-where she had garnered up her heart thieves broke in and stole the sun that rose bright was overclouded-she lay down in sorrow and arose in sorrow-her evening and her morning draught were from the cup of affliction; and whenever it was presented, she drained it to the very dregs, with the heart and smile of an angel. When this child came, she doated on it as the harbinger of better times, as the dove that was bringing an olive branch to show that the waters of affliction were subsiding. "Is it surprising, my friend, that this child was the idol of the family? And when I add that from the moment his lips first moved with an intelligible sound, he was distinguished not only for precocity of feeling and intellect, but for what hangs longer behind, nice, accurate and acute discrimination, you will not wonder that he was worshipped. It could not be expected that maternal, brotherly or sisterly affection, should slumber over such an infant, born at such a |