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beast with its struggling victim? And their complaints, are they not the complaints of the vulture at the escape of its prey?

66

All ought

Now, what is true of one is true of all. to live, all ought to enjoy a lawful liberty of action, all ought to accomplish their end by an incessant development. and perfecting of themselves. People ought then mutually to respect the rights of each other, and it is there where duty, justice, commences.

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"But justice suffices not for the wants of Humanity. Each one under his own government does indeed fully enjoy his rights; but he remains isolated in the world, deprived of the succor and aid necessary to all. Does a man want bread, they would say; let him seek it; do I prevent him? taken nothing that belonged to him; each one to himself and each one for himself. They would repeat the words of Cain: Am I my brother's keeper?' The widow, the orphan, the sick, the feeble, would be abandoned; no reciprocal support, no disinterested kindness; everywhere selfishness and indifference; no more of genuine relations, no more sharing of joys or sorrows, no more of common feeling. Life, retired to the centre of each heart, would be consumed in solitude, like a lamp in a tomb, which shines only upon the ruins of man; for a man without heart, compassion, sympathy, love, what is he but a moving corpse?

"And since we have need of each other, for mutual support, like frail plants which are agitated and bent by the slightest winds, - since mankind would perish without a mutual communication of the goods individually possessed by virtue of the law of justice, another law is necessary for the preservation of the human race; and that law is CHARITY. Charity, which forms a single living body of the scattered members of Humanity, is the consummation of duty, of which the foundation is justice.

"What would a man be, deprived of all liberty on earth, -who could neither go, nor come, nor act, but as another commanded or permitted? What would an entire people be, reduced to this condition? The savage beasts live happier and less degraded in the bosom of their forests.

"Moreover, what would a man be, selfishly concentrated within himself, neither directly injuring nor serving any one, dreaming only of himself, living only for himself? What can a people be, composed of unconnected individuals, where no one sympathizes with the misfortunes of others, nor feels himself obliged to aid or assist his fellow creatures; where

all interchange of services is but a calculation of interest; where the groan of suffering, the lamentation of grief, the sob of distress, the cry of hunger, evaporate in the air as unmeaning sounds; where no blessings are diffused by a secret impulsion of that love which alone knows what it is to possess, because it enjoys only that which it gives?

"This people, like the scattered grains abandoned upon the ground after the harvest has been gathered, would soon rot in the dirt, if it were not swept away by one of those tempests, which God has ordered occasionally to pass over the world for its purification.

"It is right that frees, but it is duty that unites; the union of the two is life, and their perfect union is perfect life." pp. 41-46.

These extracts show the spirit of the work, and suggest its principal doctrines. We should be glad, had we room, to make one other extract, exhibiting the manner in which the Abbé views religion, but must be content to refer to the book itself.

After what we have said, and the extracts we have made, we need not commend the book to our readers. It should be the pocket companion of every citizen of the Republic. It should lie on the table with the Bible, Pilgrim's Progress, and the Psalm Book; and if the Board of Education wish to escape utter damnation, they will obtain leave to make it a volume in their Common School Library. It only remains for us to return our thanks to the translator for giving this work to our community in an English dress. could not have employed more profitably the few hours for study he is able to snatch from his official duties. The work is a public benefit. And let us add, the translation is among our finest specimens of translation from the French. The translator has entered into the heart of his author, and sympathized entirely with his spirit; and his version is beautiful and accurate, not unworthy of the original. We subjoin the note with which he introduces it.

"The problem of man's existence, its conditions, the rights resulting from those conditions, and the duties involved, is now commanding the attention due to its importance. We see

Humanity, not as it originally came from the hands of its Creator, but such as the events of thousands of years have made it. We mistake habit for nature, and lose the power of distinguishing between the natural and the artificial. It is desirable to recover and to exercise this power; to analyze man, society; to ascertain the original condition of the one, and trace the history of the other; to ascertain the rights and duties of the one, and the origin, objects, and legitimate powers of the other. While seeking for light upon these and kindred questions, accident threw in my way "Le Livre du Peuple," by the celebrated Abbé de la Mennais, and it occurred to me that a translation might be beneficial to those whose minds are exercised on these subjects. Although more particularly addressed to the people of Europe, who are now suffering many evils and oppressions from which we have happily escaped, it nevertheless contains much that is applicable to every people in every age; and with the hope that it may be useful, if not in teaching rights, at least in exciting to the performance of duties, this volume is respectfully commended to his fellow citizens by- THE TRANSLATOR.'

pp. 3-5. EDITOR.

LITERARY NOTICES.

CHAT IN BOSTON BOOKSTORES. - No. I.

St.-PROF. Partridge is

SCENE, - a Bookseller's Shop in leaning on the counter, reading. - Enter REV. MR. NIGHTSHADE. -They salute one another. After the usual inquiries have been made

Rev. Mr. N.-I AM fortunate in meeting with you, for I am come to get a few books for Mrs. N., and the girls; and you are so much au fait as to new publications, that you will help me to choose.

Prof. P.-Willingly; the task will not be long; our shelves do not groan beneath a weight of solid bullion of late. But what sort of books do the ladies want?

Rev. Mr. N.- O ladies' reading of course, sentimental, lyrical, and ludicrous, Shakspeare, perhaps, taste and the musical glasses, certainly.

Prof. P.-Well, here is a book that every one reads. It bears the promising title of Hyperion.

Prof. P.

"How high yon lark is heavenward borne,
Yet, ere again she hails the morn,
Beyond where birds can wing their way,
Our souls may soar to endless day,
May hear the heavenly choirs rejoice,
While earth still echoes to her voice.

"A waveless flood, supremely bright,
Has drowned the myriad isles of light;
But ere that ocean ebb'd away,
The shadowy gulf their forms betray,
Above the stars our course may run,
'Mid beams unborrowed from the sun.

"In this day's light what flowers will bloom,
What insects quit the self-made womb!
But ere the bud its leaves unfold,
The gorgeous fly his plumes of gold,
On fairer wings we too may glide,
Where youth and joy no ills betide.

"Then come, while yet we linger here,
Fit thoughts for that celestial sphere,
A heart which, under keenest light,
May bear the gaze of spirits bright,
Who all things know, and nought endure
That is not holy, just, and pure."

And this song of Melledine's,

"Blest is the tarn which towering clifts o'ershade,
Which, cradled deep within the mountains breast,
Nor voices loud, nor dashing oars invade;

Yet e'en the tarn enjoys no perfect rest,

For oft the angry skies her peace molest,

With them she frowns, gives back the lightning's glare,
Then rages wildly in the troubled air.

"This calmer lake, which potent spells protect,

Lies dimly slumbering through the fires of day,

And when yon skies with chaste resplendence decked,
Shine forth in all their stateliest array,

O then she wakes to glitter bright as they,
And view the face of heaven's benignant queen
Still looking down on hers with smile serene.

"What cruel cares the maiden's heart assail,
Who loves, but fears no deep-felt love to gain,
Or, having gained it, fears that love will fail!
My power can soothe to rest her wakeful pain,
Till none but calm delicious dreams remain,
And while sweet tears her easy pillow steep,
She yields that dream of bliss to ever welcome sleep."

Is not that truly musical? It seems to float upon the lyre. And what an uncommon degree of elegiac sweetness in Penselimer's song:

"The sun may speed or loiter on his way,

May veil his face in clouds, or brightly glow;
Too fast he moved to bring one fatal day,

I ask not now if he be swift or slow.

"I have a region, bathed in joyous beams,

Where he hath never gilded fruit or flower,
Hath ne'er lit up the glad perennial streams,

Nor tinged the foliage of an Autumn bower.

"Then hail the twilight cave, the silent dell,

That boast no beams, no music of their own;
Bright pictures of the past around me dwell,

Where nothing whispers that the past is flown.”

Rev. Mr. N. But I do not see marks of distinguished genius in these verses.

Prof. P. Surely, no! I never said you would, yet has the book the fragrance of genius. For it is the spontaneous melody of solitary hours, the vision ever ready for the eye, which looks out with ardor and purity into nature. Read a got-up book made for profit and fame, as too many are now, and then turn to this genuine record of the life of mind, and you will feel the difference. Especially do I delight in the sense of relationship with nature which pervades this book.

Rev. Mr. N. — Are there not many works of this sort to be found in German literature?

Prof. P.-Of this sort; yet not like this. The Germans listen reverently to the voices within and without, and consequently often discover a fine perception of those analogies between the forms of external nature and those of thought, which have as yet been so imperfectly analyzed, that they may be called mysterious. Tieck and Novalis delight in reproducing those harmonies, which bind the visible world into one hymn with the soul of man. There is a bright ray from this source in the little Romance of Undine. But always the Germans are deficient in plastic grace, and trust too much in the earnestness of the reader; the torch burns clearer in an English atmosphere.

Rev. Mr. N.-Was not Vathek, which Byron admired so much, a work of this class?

Prof. P.- No! Vathek was a satire. Beneath all the Eastern brilliancy of paint and gilding, you detect the scaffolding of English life; or rather it is the life of its author, a life of unchecked impulse, and tastes refined even to depravity, linked with a prophecy of mournful significance. Phantasmion is a work of pure imagination, and its truth is not that of experience, but of the young soul's desire for the beautiful, the perfect.

Rev. Mr. N. How deep is the philosophy of Fiction!

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