“Aye! and ’tis the right of the singing bird to skim the blue ether, and pour its music in concert with the harmony of the stars--but how many things invade that right! The bird that sings sweetly of a morning, may be jammed into the wallet of the clown, by evening--its music hushed, and its mottled plumes dabbled with dirt and gore. Man’s prerogative to be happy! aye--_but ’tis his necessity to be miserable_.” ‘This, sir,’ said my host, ‘may give you some idea of his character. The evening passed off--though not very happily; for there was that about him which took hold of my feelings, and when I shook hands with him for the night there was an ache in my bosom, I could’nt well get rid of. ‘In the morning, he was up betimes--breakfasted--and rose to depart. Before he went however, he took from his bosom a paper; and handing it to me, bade me keep it till his return. ‘It is a short sketch of some of the events of my life,’ rejoined he, as he mounted his horse, ‘and though it benefit you not, it will perform at least one good office--make you remember me.’ He bowed, and rode away. ‘That paper I have now somewhere, and if you wish, sir, I will read it to you.’ My host rose, and going to a huge cat-hole, or cupboard in the corner of the room, he succeeded in finding it--not forgetting by the way, to tumble out sundry articles of house-wife memory, such as balls of yarn, woollen stockings, flannels, and night-caps, and strewing them over the floor. Seated again by the comfortable fire, he now put on a huge pair of brass spectacles, blew his nose thrice, and proceeded to decipher-- THE STRANGER’S MANUSCRIPT. ‘I pass over my boyhood.