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We know nothing OF more restless tendency
than fine, old-fashloned June day-one that be-
gins with morning damp with fresh south
wind, and gradually clearsaway i'll thin white
mist, till the sun shines through at last, genial
and luxurious, but not sultry, and every thing
looks clear and bright in the transparent atmos
pherc We know nothing which SO scduces the
very eye and spirit of a man, and stirs III HIM
that gypsy longing, which, spite OF disgrace and
punishment, made him truant III hls boyhood.
There is an expansive rarity IN the ar OF such ID
day-a something that lifts up the lungs, and
plays in the nostrll with delicious sensation of
freshness and elasticity. The close room grows
sadly dull under it. The halfopen blind, with
It's tempting glimpse of the sky and branch of
idle leaves fckering in the sun, has a strange
witchery. The poor pursuits of this drossy world
grow passing insignificant; and the scrawled
and blotted manuscripts of an editors table
pleasant anodyne as they when the wind is
In the east--are, at these seasons, but the Diary
of an Ennuvee"-the notchcd calender of con-
6nement and unrest. The commendatorv SEN
tence stands half-completed; the fate OF the au-
thor under review, with his two volumes, is alto
gether of less Importance than five minutes of
the life Of that tame pigeon that sits on the caves
washing his white breast in the spout; and the
public goodwill, and the cause Of literature, and
our own precarlous livelihood, all fade into dim
shadow, and leave listening dreamr to the
creeping Of the sweet south upon the vine or the
tar off rattle of the hourly, with It's freight of
happy bowlers and gentlemen OF suburban idle
ness.


What IS 1t to us, when the sun is shining, and
the winds bland and balmy, and the moist roads
with their fresh smell of earth tempting US away
TO the hills-what is it, then, to us, whether "a
poor-devil-author has a flaw in his style, or our
own leading article "a local habitation and "a
name p Are we to thrust down our heart like a
reptile into its cage, and close our shutter TO the
cheerful light, and our ear to all sounds of out
door happiness Are we to smother our uneasy
impulses and chain ourselves down to poor dry
thought, that has neither light nor music nor any
spell in it, save the poor necessity OF occupation
Shall we forget the turn N the green lane where
we are wont to loiter in our drive and the cool
claret of our friend at the Hermitage, and the
glorious golden summer sunset IN which we bowl
away to the city-muSlng and refreshed Alas,
YES the heart mast be closed, and the green lane
and the friend that is happier than we (for he Is
:dle) must be forgotten, and the dry thought
must be dragged up ike a wiltul steer and yoked
10 It's fellow, and the magnificent sunset with all
its glorious dreams and torgetful happiness must
be seen in the pauses OF articles, and the bleared
een' of painful attention-and all this in June
prodigal June-when the very worm is all day
out in the sun, and the birds scarce stop their
singing from the gray light to the dewfall


What an insufferable state of the thernome-
ter! We knock under to Heraclitus, that fire is
the first principle of all things. Fahrenheit at
one hundred degrees in the shade! Our curtain
In the attic unstirred! Our japonlca dropping
It's great white flowers lower and lower 1t is u
fair scene indeed! not ripple from the pier to
the castle, and the surface of the water, as Shelly
says, like plane of glass spread out between
two heavens there is solitary sloop, with
the light and shade iiekering on its loose sail,
positively hung in the air-and gull, it is re-
freshing to see him, keeping down with his white
wings close to the water, as if to meet his own
snowy and perfect shadow. Was ever such IN