yet they relate to the subject, inasmuch as the orator's "finer feelings" cannot be produced without these powers.

But how shall we describe the orator's finer feelings? Let us use, as an example, the father of the American Revolution, the most gifted orator of Virginia, Patrick Henry. And from his eventful life let us select his effort before the Colonial Convention of Virginia, where he dashed in pieces the ensigns of a disgraceful peace, and shook the country with an invocation to battle. Be hold him sitting with that august body! He has long marked the encroachments of British tyranny-his spirit has again and again kindled when remonstrance and prayer have been answered by insult he has already resisted the stamp act, and with the cry of treason ringing in his ears, has thundered," Cæsar had his Brutus, Charles I. his Cromwell, and George III. may profit by their example!" The other leading members of the Convention, like him, see and detest British tyranny, but, unlike him, they fear British power. They propose to reiterate their prayers and remonstrances-his noble and courageous soul disdains such submission. He rises before the Convention to support a motion which contains the first germ of the Revolution-he commences with the most courteous expressions of deference for those whom his conscience and patriotism oblige him to oppose. He calls over the wrongs of the colony-speaks of British chains, and rings them in the ears of the Convention-depreciates British power, and inspires the infant feebleness of America with the strength of hope-arms three million of freemen in the cause of liberty, and invokes the God of hosts to lead them forth to victory -declares the war to be inevitable, and says, with supernatural emphasis, "Let it come!"-asks if life is so dear, or peace so sweet as to be purchased at the price of slavery and chains-and, in conclusion, says, "I know not what may be the course of others, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!"

Now, during the first part of the speech of which we have just given an imperfect synopsis, the feelings of the orator were, courage suited to the emergency, pity for the wrongs of his country, indignation against the Parliament and throne of England, and contempt for tyrants, their chains and tortures, together with those indescribable emotions which always accompany the efforts of genius, and the coruscations of the imagination. And as the tide of eloquence rolled on, these feelings increased-increased with the expansion of thought, and thought expanded again with the increase of these delectable feelings. His courage gave unutterable firmness to his purpose-his pity, soft at first, became fluid in the shape of tears, the bright reflecters of the tenderness withinhis indignation became patriotic revenge, and his contempt gave a scowl at the enemies of his country which seemed almost to an.

And

nihilate their dreaded power. But still the burning tide of thought and eloquence rolled on, his feelings still increased in majesty, and power, and patriotism. There was majesty in his feelings, for his heart could not but imbibe the trembling bliss of his sublime conceptions-there was power in them, because he could not have these majestic thoughts, and give them utterance, without the consciousness of great intellectual energy-there was patriotism in them; and this drew every other feeling into the channel of his country's good. But still there was something necessary to complete his ecstacy, and that was success. what must have been the character of his feelings, when, in the language of the bard, he found his oratory to be as the harp of "Orpheus, strung with poet's sinews, whose golden touch could soften steel and stones!" What must have been the frenzy of his delight when he saw his illustrious audience yielding to his wishes, and ready to rush to the battle! What must have been his feelings as the astounding conviction rushed upon him that this speech is the first flutter of the American eagle, the first effort to wrest the stars and stripes from the mouth of the British lion, the corner-stone of the temple of American glory, the foundation of a powerful nation, to which every land shall look as a model of government, a paragon of science, an example of morals.

I THINK. OF THE E.

I THINK of thee in the night,

When all beside is still,

And the moon comes out with her pale sad light
To sit on the distant hill.

When the stars are all like dreams,

And the breezes all like sighs,

And there comes a voice from the far-off streams

Like thy spirit's low replies.

I think of thee by day,

'Mid the cold and busy crowd,

When the laughter of the young and gay

Is far too glad and loud.

I hear thy low sad tone,

And thy sweet young smile I see,

My heart were all alone

But for its thoughts of thee.

ON THE CULTIVATION OF THE MIND.

No. II.

BY THE REV. ROBERT LEE.

You will not suppose that by much reading, I mean the running over many books. This is not so much reading as dissipation and instead of concentrating and training the intellectual faculty, that habit tends, beyond most others, to emasculate the understanding, both indisposing and disqualifying it for those severe exercises of attention and reflection, from which its health and expansion arise. An ancient author has well distinguished between "much reading" and "the reading of many books." And certainly he who has so read one good book, as to have impressed the facts contained in it on his memory; as to have fully comprehended the reasonings; as not only to have followed his author in what he has expressed, but also to have pursued to some distance those manifold cogitations implied in his discourse, or which it naturally suggests to a meditative spirit; for an author should be valued, not so much according to what he has thought for us, as to what he has enabled us to think; and the highest value of the best writers lies rather in what they suggest than in what they teach; for their books drain off only the surface water of their conceptions-the more copious and purer streams sinking beneath; so that none, without digging deep, can find those wells of living water. He, I say, who has thus thoroughly mastered and appropriated one good author, has made a greater step in the path of self-improvement, than if he had devoured the contents of a whole library, without reflection, or attempting to ponder, judge, or retain what he read. For in this case the mind is passive-in the former it is active and it an unfailing principle, that power and skill arise not from passivity but from action. A child who has been taught to stand, or to take three steps by himself, has made a greater progress towards the art of walking than if he had been carried over the whole globe.

I am aware of the folly of prescribing any one method, as applicable universally. The infinite variety of circumstances, tastes, and talents, forbids such hedging up of the path to knowledge; and genius commonly, by a certain happy divination, discovers for herself the way that shall conduct her most directly to the point proposed. Yet, as genius is not a universal or even

a common gift; and as even when present she is not an infallible directrix; when, also, we see so much industry misapplied -as we sometimes do-so much labor bestowed in the unfruitful weaving of a Penelope's web; when men read much yet know little, or little that is worth the knowing-can talk but not judge-argue but not reason—are better able to defend any position than to discern what positions ought to be defended, or will repay the defence; when their minds are so ill stored, and so undisciplined, that self-communion affords them no pleasure and no profit, so that they are driven to seek society without, however worthless; when men are so unstable as to be tossed about from one opinion to another continually, not knowing what to believe or what to reject-ending perhaps in that melancholy unfixedness which knows not whether to believe anything; surely it becomes a duty to warn all against that dissipation, of which those miserable mental diseases are the natural result. If you wish to know nothing, to do nothing, to be nothing, you will permit your fancy to rove whithersoever it wills, that is, you will indulge mental dissipation. "He that sows the wind, will reap the whirlwind." He only that ploughs and sows within enclosures will find a harvest to reap. Labor bestowed upon the wilderness or the common is lost. And he that has little time to apply to the cultivation of his understanding, should be doubly solicitous lest any fraction of that little should be lost, but that all of it should be concentrated and husbanded.

The first and most necessary preparation for making advancement in knowledge is the habit of attention, or the power and custom of keeping one's mind fixedly and continuously directed to the matter before it, to the exclusion, for the time, of all other thoughts. This, to persons of active and fruitful imagination especially, is a most difficult attainment: hence, they are often outstripped in the race of knowledge by others of far inferior powers, to whom the very slowness of their parts presented less formidable obstacles in acquiring the habit of attention.

To generate and strengthen this power, nothing conduces more than the study of Geometry; which therefore should be pursued, at least to some extent, by all who have the opportunity. For though all the particular propositions should afterwards be effaced from the memory, the seeds will probably have been sown of a habit which can perish only with the mind itself. All studies demanding a close application of thought have the same tendency, though none, I think, in the same degree as that I have mentioned; which has this further recommendation, that it appeals to the understanding exclusively-the passions having here no liberty of speech. But you may exercise and improve

the habit of attention, in the common employments of life, as well as in studies expressly engaged in for that purpose. Whatever is before you, endeavor to make it for the time, as long as is necessary, the object of your undivided thoughts. This is the grand secret of acquiring intellectual opulence, as well as of success in the business of this world. He that does one thing at once, commonly does many things, and each well. Newton professed that he was conscious of no superiority to ordinary men in any respect except in the power of attention. He could keep his mind fixed on one point till he discerned what he sought.

He that thinks it necessary to have a formed or final opinion on every question, yea on every important question, will often be compelled to profess what he has not investigated; and, if he be honest, to retract his professions; which can never be done but at a considerable expense of reputation. It is the part of a wise, as well as of an honest and truth-loving man, to hold his judgment in suspense till he has well examined: and such a person will regard it equally an offence against candor and rectitude to arrive at a decision after having heard what can be said only on one side of a disputed point, as if a jury should return a verdict before they had listened to both of the parties. Yet this is the sort of investigation which satisfies a large proportion of mankind, even in regard to most important matters. They form their opinions first, as passion, interest, or authority dictates; and, ever after, their ears are open only to those who defend that which they have chosen to believe. How else shall we explain the remarkable fact that opinions are often found as hereditary in families as features or disease? A sentiment descends through many generations from father to son like a wart or a scrofula.

This unfortunate and highly censurable proceeding is one great spring of heats and factions-as men almost always maintain with more keenness and passion, what they have received from authority, than what they have examined for themselves, and of the grounds of which they feel assured.

It is not only a part of prudence, but is essentially involved in the maintaining a pure conscience, that we exercise caution and deliberation in forming and avowing opinions, which when once professed, the pride of consistency, and the shame of confessing an error, may drive us pertinaciously to adhere to, notwithstanding many secret misgivings. By a premature avowal of opinions, also, persons often connect themselves with parties, and pledge themselves to a course of conduct, which corrupt and degrade their moral sense; for no situation can be conceived more miserable, as few are more debasing, than for one who is dubi