might be given to the forum or the circus, but the night was the season for the statesman to project his schemes, and for the poet to pour his verse.

Night has, likewise, with great reason, been considered, in every age, as the astronomer's day. Young observes, with energy, that

"An undevout astronomer is mad.”

The privilege of contemplating those brilliant and numerous myriads of planets which bedeck our skies is peculiar to night, and it is our duty, both as lovers of moral and natural beauty, to bless that season, when we are indulged with such a gorgeous display of glittering and useful light. It must be confessed, that the seclusion, calmness, and tranquillity of midnight, are most friendly to serious, and even airy contemplations.

I think it treason to this sable Power, who holds divided empire with Day, constantly to shut our eyes at her approach. To long sleep I am decidedly a foe. As it is expressed by a quaint writer, we shall all have enough of it in the grave. Those, who cannot break the silence of the night by vocal throat, or eloquent tongue, may be permitted to disturb it by a snore. But he, among my readers, who possesses the power of fancy and strong thought, should be vigilant as a watchman. Let him sleep abundantly for health, but sparingly for sloth. It is better, sometimes, to consult a page of philosophy than the pillow.

Colloquial Powers of Dr. Franklin.-WIRT.

NEVER have I known such a fireside companion as he was! Great as he was, both as a statesman and a philosopher, he never shone in a light more winning than when he was seen in a domestic circle. It was once my good fortune to pass two or three weeks with him, at the house of a private gentleman, in the back part of Pennsylvania; and we were confined to the house during the whole of that time, by the unintermitting constancy and depth of the snows. But confinement could never be felt where Frank

lin was an inmate.-His cheerfulness and his colloquial Dowers spread around him a perpetual spring. When I speak, however, of his colloquial powers, I do not mean to awaken any notion analogous to that which Boswell has given us, when he so frequently mentions the colloquial powers of Dr. Johnson. The conversation of the latter continually reminds one of "the pomp and circumstance of glorious war." It was, indeed, a perpetual contest for victory, or an arbitrary and despotic exaction of homage to his superior talents. It was strong, acute, prompt, splendid and vociferous; as loud, stormy, and sublime, as those winds which he represents as shaking the Hebrides, and rocking the old castles that frowned upon the dark rolling sea beneath. But one gets tired of storms, however sublime they may be, and longs for the more orderly current of nature.-Of Franklin no one ever became tired. There was no ambition of eloquence, no effort to shine, in any thing which came from him. There was nothing which made any demand either upon your allegiance or your admiration.

His manner was as unaffected as infancy. It was nature's self. He talked like an old patriarch; and his plainness and simplicity put you, at once, at your ease, and gave you the full and free possession and use of all your faculties.

His thoughts were of a character to shine by their own light, without any adventitious aid. They required only a medium of vision like his pure and simple style, to exhibit, to the highest advantage, their native radiance and beauty. His cheerfulness was unremitting. It seemed to be as much the effect of the systematic and salutary exercise of the mind as of its superior organization. His wit was of the first order. It did not show itself merely in occasional coruscations; but, without any effort or force on his part, it shed a constant stream of the purest light over the whole of his discourse. Whether in the company of commons or nobles, he was always the same plain man; always most perfectly at his ease, his faculties in full play, and the full orbit of his genius forever clear and unclouded. And then the stores of his mind were inexhaustible. He had commenced life with an attention so vigilant, that

nothing had escaped his observation, and a judgment so solid, that every incident was turned to advantage. His youth had not been wasted in idleness, nor overcast by intemperance. He had been all his life a close and deep reader, as well as thinker; and, by the force of his own powers, had wrought up the raw materials, which he had gathered from books, with such exquisite skill and felicity, that he had added a hundred fold to their original value, and justly made them his own.

An Apparition.-CLUB-ROOM.

THE sun was hastening to a glorious setting as I gained the last hill that overlooks the forest; and, late as it was, I paused to gaze once more on this most brilliant and touching of the wonders of nature. The glories of the western sky lasted long after the moon was in full splendour in the east; on one side all was rich and warm with departing day on the other how pure and calm was the approach of night! If I had been born a heathen, I think I could not have seen the setting sun, without believing myself immortal who, that had never seen the morning dawn, could believe that wonderful orb, which sinks so slowly and majestically through a sea of light, throwing up beams of a thousand hues, melting and mingling together, touching the crest of the clouds with fire, and streaming over the heavens with broad brilliancy, up to the zenith-then retiring from sight, and gradually drawing his beams after him, till their last faint blush is extinguished in the cold, uniform tints of moonlight-who could believe that source of light had perished? Who then could believe that the being, who gazes on that magnificent spectacle with such emotion, and draws from it such high conclusions of his own nature and destiny, is even more perishable?

I remained absorbed in such reflections till the twilight was almost gone. I then began rapidly to descend, and, leaving the moon behind the hill, entered the long dark shadow it threw over the wood at its foot. It was gloomy and chill-the faint lingering of day was hidden by the

trees, and the moon seemed to have set again, throwing only a distant light on the rich volumes of clouds that hung over her. As I descended farther, the air became colder, the sky took a deeper blue, and the stars shone with a wintry brightness. The thoughts which came tenderly over me, by the light of the setting sun, now grew dark and solemn; and I felt how fleeting and unsatisfactory are the hopes built on the analogies of nature. The sun sets so beautifully it seems impossible it should not rise again; but in the gloom of midnight, where is the promise of the morrow? In the cold, but still beautiful, features of the dead, we think we see the pledge of a resurrection; but what hope of life is there in the dust to which they crumble?

I arrived late at the inn. It was a large and ruinous structure, which had once been a castle, but the family of its owner had perished in disgrace their title was extinguished, their lands confiscated and sold, and their name now almost forgotten. It stood on a small bare hill in the midst of the forest, which it overtopped, only to lose its shelter and shade, for from it the eye could not reach the extremity of the wood. I knocked long before I was admitted; at last an old man came to the door with a lantern, and, without a word of welcome, led my horse to the stable, leaving me to find my way into the house. The spirit of the place seemed to have infected its inhabitants. I entered a kitchen, whose extent I could not see by the dim fire-light, and, having stirred the embers, sat down to warm me. The old man soon returned, and showed me up the remains of a spacious staircase, to a long hall, in a corner of which was my bed. I extinguished the light, and ay down without undressing; but the thoughts and scenes of the evening had taken strong hold of my mind, and I could not sleep. I did not feel troubled, but there was an intensity of thought and feeling within me, that seemed waiting for some great object on which to expend itself. I rose, and walked to the window: the moon was shining beautifully bright, but the forest was so thick that her light only glanced on the tops of the trees, and showed nothing distinctly-all was silent and motionless—not a breeze, not a sound, not a cloud-the earth was dim and undistinguish

able, the heavens were filled with a calm light, and the moon seemed to stand still in the midst. I know not how long I remained leaning against the window and gazing upward, for I was dreaming of things long past, of which I was then, though I knew it not, the only living witness ; when my attention was suddenly recalled by the low but distinct sound of some one breathing near me I turned with a sudden thrill of fear, but saw nothing; and, as the sound had ceased, I readily believed it was fancy. I soon relapsed into my former train of thought, and had forgotten the circumstance, when I was again startled by a sound I could not mistake-there was some one breathing at my very ear-so terribly certain was the fact that I did not move even my eyes; it was not the deep, regular breath of one asleep, nor the quick panting of guit, but a quiet, gentle respiration; I remained listening till I could doubt no longer, and then turned slowly round, that I might not be overpowered by the suddenness of the sight, which I knew I must meet-again there was nothing to be seenthe moon shone broad into the long desolate chamber, and, though there was a little gathering of shadow in the corners, I am sure nothing visible could have escaped the keenness of my gaze, as I looked again and again along the dark wainscot. My calmness now forsook me, and, as I turned fearfully back to the window, my hand brushed against the curtain, whose deep folds hid the corner near which I was standing-the blood gushed to my heart with a sharp pang, and I involuntarily dashed my hands forward -they passed through against the damp wall, and the tide of life rolled back, leaving me hardly able to support myself. I stood a few moments lost in fear and wonderwhen the breathing began again, and there—in the bright moonlight-I felt the air driven against my face by a being I could not see. I sat down on the bed in great agitation, and it was a considerable time before I could at all compose my mind-the fact was certain, but the cause inscrutable. I rose, and walked across the chamber.

I made three or four turns, and gradually recovered my tranquillity, though still impressed with the belief that what I had heard was no natural sound. I was not now in a state to be easily deluded, for my senses were on the alert,