Brummel was a very fervent admirer of America, and descanted largely on what might be expected from the more extensive diffusion of British liberty through her means. 'It is only the illiberal and unwise,' said he, 'who apprehend that the power of America, transcendant as it must become, will injure Great Britain. On the contrary, as the one increases in prosperity, the other certainly must do so likewise. What would England be now, if America had never been discovered? At most, a second-rate power. Suppose such an operation to be possible, as that of cutting off Great Britain from all intercourse with the United States? How many thousands of her artizans must go without bread! How many of her commercial establishments decay! What destruction of wealth, ruin of palaces, and dock-yards! Such an event would occasion a scene of desolation to be paralleled only by that of Nineveh and Tyre of old.' For a mere man of fashion, Brummel entertained some clear ideas on political subjects, by which ministers might have profited. Witness his opinions on Canada. * * * * * BUT these opinions, with the remainder of Mitford's varied history, we reserve for another number. SUMMER EVENING. WRITTEN AMONG THE BLUE-RIDGE MOUNTAINS. BY CHARLES CONSTANTINE PISE, D. D. Lo! it is evening: down the mountain's side The parting sun-beams slowly melt away: But, ere they fade, a lingering lustre shed, That loiters brilliant on the smiling peak. See how the horizon blushes--as the last Declining, lingering radiance of day Skirts the faint eves of heaven--while adown The desert mountain darkness glides apace, And steals the cottage from the inquiring eye! Hark! from the copse a plaintive murmur sighs, That seems to tell a tale of sympathy. 'Tis the lone rivulet, which lately saw And felt the sun-beams dancing on its bosom: Then o'er its gentle bed it stole in mirth, And as it flowed, chimed to the lovely scene. Ah! let me hie me to the twilight stream, To muse the solemn, silent hour away! But, as I move, upon the verge of heaven The full broad moon, amid a host of clouds, That stand like broken battlements afar, Unveils her silvery face, and gives a beam Resplendent, meek, and lovely as the hour. Sometimes the shaggy clouds inter her form, And leave me to myself and darkness--yet Anon she bursts her prison, and looks down, Like one that feels her consciousness and pride.