voyage from the United States to Valparaiso,
when he was the only person saved, and who,
from his long residence in the provinces of
South America, is regarded there rather as a
native than as a foreigner. Traversing on
horseback through deep sand, we slowly
reached the Downs. They are nearly half-an-
hour's ride in breadth, and are covered on the
land side with various kinds of grass and
reeds, which gradually increase in density
until the ground disappears. Between the
many hills and mountains that form the
Downs are very deep holes, filled with a
perceptibly thick water, which is perfectly
fresh and sweet, notwithstanding its thickness,
and, doubtless, the produce of springs
sufficiently powerful to throw off all extraneous
superincumbent waters.

My friend there narrated to me the
circumstance of his shipwreck on the scene
before me, so vividly that I could not throw
off its saddening impressions, while galloping
with him along the beach, with the Downs,
we had now viewed together, on our left, and
on our right, the endless ocean. I could not
avoid thinking, that even thither the Pampas
bore the breath of winds more fatal than a
pestilence towards those whose best earthly
hope lay in the anchors, which avail nothing
on such a coast. The shipwrecks are
frequent there; and even at this time are often
found the battered waifs and strays that
come in as continual mementos of the fate of
the large English vessel, the "William the
Third," which perished there, with all hands,
about the year 1833. There rose blackly and
frowningly before me the lurking terrors of
those perilous rock, that run for miles into
the sea, and are so large that, at low tide,
their form and development are scarcely
concealed. No living creature can be seen upon
those vast downs, save occasionally, and
rarely, some curious traveller; not even a
single bird lends to the scene a living breath;
not an echo sports in its air of perfect stillness;
save when the Pampas winds come
there to war with the vexed waters of the
overpowering ocean. Lingering on the scene,
notwithstanding these impressions, we saw
the majestic Atlantic in its happier mood of
peacefulness, reposing calmly and serenely on
its awful might; and in viewing its dark blue
waters (how "darkly, beautifully blue" they
are!) commingling in the scarcely perceptible
horizon, with all the glories of the skies, the
sublimity and wild grandeur of all things
above and around imparted to me a moment
of feeling, worth a world of travelling to enjoy.

A WORD TO YOUNG POETS.

WHY should Sorrow interlace
     Her deepest nightshade in the hair
Of poets of the lyric race,
     And wake melodious despair;
Till ruin'd hearts the chant repeat
Of death-choirs, clad in winding-sheet?

The Past—why, let it never be
A pall upon thy memory;
But use it to compare thine age
With history, and wisdom's page,
Merging thine individual sense
In all the world's experience.

The Present—fail not to behold
Life's actual strength—immediate gold;—
     Not merely given to be up-buoyed
By future visions, aims and hopes—
Imagination's vista'd slopes—
     But seized, used rightly, and enjoyed.

The Future—let it be thy star:
     Not sought as infants oft extend
        With eager eyes their little hand—
     Forgetting means, to gain the end;
But knowing well, how high, how far,
        Nobly aspire to that bright land.

SHADOWS.

THE SHADOW OF LUCY HUTCHINSON.

THERE are some books that leave upon the
mind a strange impression, one of the most
delightful reading can produce—a haunting of
the memory, it may be, by one form or by
several, strangely real, having a positive
personal presence and identity, yet always
preserving an immaterial existence, and
occupying a "removed ground," from which they
never stir to mingle with the realities of
recollection. These shadows hold their place
apart, as some rare dreams do, claiming from
us an indescribable tenderness.

The "Memoirs of Colonel Hutchinson" is
such a book. In many passages it is tedious
—a record of petty strategies of partisan
warfare—and, more dreary still, of factious
jealousies and polemical hatreds. The absolute
truth of the book is fatal, in one direction,
to our hero-worship. The leaders of
the Great Rebellion, in such minute details,
appear as mere schemers, as rival agents at a
borough election; and the most fervent in
professions of religious zeal are as bitter in
their revenges as the heroes of a hundred
scalps; but there arises out of the book, and
is evermore associated with it, the calm quiet
shadow of a woman of exquisite purity, of
wondrous constancy, of untiring affection—
Lucy Hutchinson, its writer.

John Hutchinson is at Richmond, lodging
at the house of his music-master. He is
twenty-two years of age. The village is full
of "good company," for the young Princes
are being educated in the palace, and many
"ingenious persons entertained themselves at
that place." The music-master's house is the
resort of the king's musicians; "and divers
of the gentlemen and ladies that were affected
with music came thither to hear." There was
a little girl "tabled" in the same house with
John Hutchinson, who was taking lessons of
the lutanist—a charming child, full of vivacity
and intelligence. She told John she had an