Fame

I suppose we all, th se of us who write in verso or prose, have the habitual feeling that weshouldlike tobe rcmembeied. It is to be awake when all of those who vrero round us have been long wrupped in b.umber. It. is a pleasaut thoughl enough ihut the name by which we hare been called shall be familiar on the lips of those whocome aiterus, and the thoughts that wrought themselves out in our intel ligence, the eiuotions that trenibled tkrough our frames, sliall live theinselves over again in the minds and bearts of others. But is there not somothiug of rest, of calm, in tho thouglit of gontly and gradually fading away out of huinau rexnembraiice 'i What liue was written that was on a level with ourconcspfions 'i Whac page of ours that does not betray somt! weakness we would feign have left unrecorded 'i To beconie a clnssic and share the life of a language, is to be ever open to criticiem, to coinparisong, to the caprices of successive generations, to bo called into court and stand a trial bcfore a new jury, once or more than once in eveiy contury. To be forgotton is to sleep in peace with the undisturbed myriads, no longer subject to the chilla and iieutF, the blasts, the sleet, the dust, which assail in endless succession that shadow of et man we cali bis reputation. The line whi;;li, dying, we would wish to blot, has been blotted out for us by a hand so ten der, go patiënt, so used to its kindly task, that the page looks as fair as if it had never borne the record of our infirmity or our transgression. And then so few would be wholly content with their legacy of fame. The dignity of a silent Aemory is not to be undervalued. Fame is alter all a kind of rude handling, and a name that is ofteu on vulgar lips seems to borrow something not to be dcsired, as tho paper money that passes from hand to hand gains somewhat which is a loss thwreby. Oh, sweet, tranquil refuge of oblivion, bo far as earth is concerned, for us poor, blunderin-, 6tammering, misbehaving cieatarer;, who can not turn over a lcaf of our life's diary without feeling thankful that its failure can no longer stare us in tlie faoel Not unwclccme shall be the baptism of dust which hides forever the naiue that was triven in the baptism of water ! We shall have good company whose names are left unspoken by posterity. Who knows whether the best of men be known, or whether there be not more remarkable persons forgotten than any that stand rrmembered in the known account of time? The grcater part must be content to bo as though they liad not been ; to bo found in the register of God, not in the record of men. Twunty-seven namen make up the first story before the flood, and the recorded namos ever since contain not one living