you, by your own eyes, that what I have said is not the effect of imagination." Accordingly, the next day, while they were conversing together in the same room, Manso perceived that, on a sudden, Tasso fixed his eyes towards the window, and that he stood as if he were immoveable. He called to him, and shook him several times; but, instead of giving a direct answer to his questions, Tasso said, "See, there is the spirit that has been pleased to come and visit me; look on him, and you will acknowledge the truth of what I say." Manso, somewhat surprised, cast his eyes towards the place he shewed him, and saw nothing but the rays of the sun passing through the glass; nor did he see any thing at all in the chamber, though he looked all around him with the most eager curiosity. But all the time, Tasso continued speaking with great vehemency, putting questions, and giving answers, as if he was actually carrying on a conversation with some person in the room. Manso, in his letter to a nobleman at Naples, speaks in the most rapturous terms of this mysterious discourse, though he confesses, that he never heard any other voice than that of Tasso. "I am brought to that pass,"

says Manso, "that I know not what to think or say; only, that if it be a weakness in to believe these visions, I fear it will

my friend

prove con

tagious to myself, and that I shall at last become as credulous as Tasso."

ADDISON'S CRITICISM.

A CERTAIN author was introduced, by a friend, to Addison, who was desired to peruse and correct a copy of English verses, which was then presented to him. Addison took the poem, which he afterwards found very stupid; and observing that about twelve lines from Homer were prefixed to it by way of motto, he erased the Greek lines, without making any amendments in the work, and returned it. The author seeing this, desired his friend who had introduced him, to inquire of Addison the reason of his doing so; expecting, however, to hear that his poem was so beautiful, that it had no occasion for any foreign embellishment. But when his friend put the question to Addison, he said, "that whilst the statues of Caligula remained all of a piece, they were little regarded by the people; but that when he fixed the heads of the gods upon unworthy shoulders, he profaned them and made himself ridiculous. I

therefore," says he, "made no more conscience

to separate Homer's verses from this poem,

than

the thief did who stole the silver head from the brazen body in Westminster Abbey.”

66 HELVELLYN.”

THE circumstance on which the following poem is founded, occurred, some years ago, in Cumberland. A young man making a solitary tour, lost his way among the mountains, and died

"On the brow of the mighty Helvellyn."

His faithful dog watched his body for six weeks, and would suffer nothing to approach it, until, exhausted by hunger and cold, he, at length, resigned his breath by the side of his master, and there the bodies remained, till

"The mountain wind wasted the tenantless clay."

Our two charming poets, Walter Scott and Campbell, walking together, and speaking of this incident, each agreed, in the spirit of amicable rivalship, to make it the subject of a poem. Scott, on his way home, composed the following exquisite lines, which he sent, the next day, to Campbell, who returned them with this

reply "I confess myself vanquished; if I were to live a thousand years, I could never write any thing equal to this, on the same subject:" and he never attempted it.

"I climb'd the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,

Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and wide,

Nought was heard but by turns as the eagle was yelling,
And starting, around me the echo replied.

On the right, Streden's-edge, the red tarn was bending,
The Catchedecam its left verge was depending,
One high nameless rock in front was ascending,

When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer died!

Dark green was the spot 'mid the brown mountain heather,

Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretch'd in decay, Like the corse of an outcast, abandon'd to weather, Till the mountain-wind wasted the tenautless clay. Yet not quite forsaken, though lonely exte: ded, For, faithful in death, his mute fav'rite attended, The much-lov'd remains of his master defended, And chas'd the wild fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? When the wind wav'd his garments, how oft didst thou start?

How many long days and long nights didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, oh! was it meet that no requiem read o'er him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,

And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before him,
Unhonour'd the pilgrim from life should depart?
When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded,
The tap'stry waves dark in the dim-lighted hall,
With 'scutcheons of silver that often is shielded,
And the pages stand mute by the canopied pall;
Through the court, at dark midnight, the torches are
beaming,

In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are gleaming,
For adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,
Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature!

To lay down thy life like the meek mountain lamb, When, 'wilder'd, he drops from some rock high in stature,

And draws his last breath by the side of his dam.
More noble thy death, by this desert lake lying,
The obsequies sung by the grey plover flying,
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying

In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedecam."