controlling every act, originating every wish, melting down all the softer lincaments of humanity into one stern image of heroic hardihood, and moving on without faltering or turning aside till it had trod on half the world. So does the scholar linger among the ruins, till by patient meditation the musty records have become a tapestry inwoven with figures of light, and he has come to a living insight of the great laws which the spirit of the universe has manifested in the history of man. In works of pure science, logic or geometry, the ideal is the truth, and the presentment to us, in a book, of another's thoughts, is an actual introduction of us into nature. The Scholar's Humility. Albeit, the scholar has ambitious desires, and large hopes, reaching far and wide, he is of a truly humble mind withal. He has no vain self seeking. His own image, swoilen to a monstrous size, does not stand between him and the light. If nature choose him to be the interpreter of her secrets, be is but the electric conveyer of truth to other men, and is not proud therefor, but thankful. How then, and by what affinity does the scholar find in commonwealth, till it pervaded soldier, people and priest, books this union and fellowship with real nature, which perpetually satisfies and urges him on? By no means in all books, nor wholly in any. A book being a record of the thought and experiences of another man, and thus a picture of his being, is a projection and presentation to the reader's mind of that which he has in common with other men. There is mirrored to him his own past, or that which he shall yet become. Thus does he come to learn the meaning and end of those vaguely tossing aspirations and ideal hopes, which the forces of nature are ever and anon putting forth in him. He in this book-it may be Milton on divorce, or Sydney on government, or the sonnets of Petrarch-has learned where in the intellectual world they stand, whither they are tending, and by what influences, inward or outward, they rise and go onward. This book then is not a mere didactic treatise, which doles out to him propositions by weight and measure. It has become an impersonation, and carries within it the secret agencies of a human life. It is no more, as to the unthinking, a series of letters fairly set up and duly pointed. It speaks to him in the tones of brotherhood, and is indeed a brother and close friend. What matters it to me that David sang thousands of years ago? The plaintive record of his sorrows and of his hopes brings us together. We dwell in company in the cave of He has well learned the narrow limits of human powers, Adullam, unite and join our shouts when the people bring and would not go beyond them. He dares not lay a prohome the Ark, and he instructs me in the ways of human fane hand on the ark. If there are mysteries not yet reveallife, its sad falls and cheerful uprisings, with fraternal gen-ed, he waits patiently, in the faith that what he knows not tleness and affection. now he shall know hereafter. He listens reverently to the The scholar cannot with his own eyes see all sights, or dim intimations that sometimes are made to himn-the solwith his own ears hear all sounds, or in his own conscious-emn voices that swell distantly and echo through the vast ness realize all the depth and variety of human experience. vault-and treasures up the vague hopes they awaken in This vast region of past and present knowledge, he can him; but would not enter forbidden realms to search out the survey only from a distance, and through the report of withheld meaning. In the simplest laws and commonest others, using the treasures which they have laid up in books, facts is a realm wide enough for all his study, and he needs Nor does he use them merely as dry and second-hand rela- not to waste his hours in chasing the uncertain, and vainly tions as if by mere transference they could become of striving to penetrate the occult. value; but rather as an index and guide to the volumes of nature and of life; and opens freely his mind and heart to the new facts thus disclosed to him, that each may make an impression according to its own power and worth. He is lowly and teachable. He has that spirit of meekness which is the first lesson of wisdom, and opens the por tals. Though his delight is in the speculative and idealin the principles which are the reality of things- he has no stubborn theories, no wilful systems to which nature perforce must bend, but takes the order of things as he finds it, and rejoices in it. He has faith in that Spirit, who is the Author of all truthwho is very Truth. He walks abroad in the universe of God, in fear and love, for He made its order, and it makes apparent His glory. Every where he reads the inscription of that Name that cannot be named, and would fain pass beyond these visible symbols to the pervading Power. He will thus turn himself to the records of events long past, and seek out the beautiful poems and episodes which the spirit of man has written on the history of the world. The life of every true man, it has been said, is a poem. It has its beginning, middle and end. It has its lights and shades, its passages of gladness and of sorrow, its personal interest and perpetual action. It may be epic, or lyric, a satire, or a farce-a Phocion, an Alcibiades, a Diogenes, or a Bruminell. As the course of every man's life is a com- Therefore does he meditate with good heed, and toil earplete poem, so is it a well-placed and tunable verse in that nestly after truth, because in every step he comes nearer loftier poem which is wrought out by the being of a nation. the fountain, and walks in a clearer light. Thus too he This too is a true growth from the substance of nature. It ceases to be his own guide and becomes the willing pupil of is a poen, in that it is built up on a genuine principle of perfect wisdom. Hence has he hours of inspiration outlife, as that is on a genuine principle of art-no accidental running and defying anticipative calculation, when a suddevelopment, but a well ordered construction, implying den, yet not lawless gleam discloses what he had for many skill in the architect and life in the subject. This too has years labored wearily to gain; and truth in her own naked its own unity, and every act of crafty policy, of ferocious brightness is his own. violence, of high-minded generosity, grows naturally out of the spirit which is the law and unity of a people. The promise is to the meek that they shall be guided in judgment. There is too, a natural sympathy between true Nature does not group by accident. Not without cause lowliness and the knowledge of truth, even as the savage did England bear More, and Hampden, and Cromwell; and hunter lays his ear on the ground to catch the tread of slight in obedience to a law as necessary as that the pear-tree and distant footsteps. Self-renouncing is of no less worth shall produce pears, and the olive not figs, did Rome bring to the intellect than to the heart of man. He who worships forth Papirius and Paulus and Cato. How noble a study, the creations of his own fancy, or bows down to the supreto him who goes to it with a scholarly impulse, is the histo-macy of his own reason, or would every where see only his ry of such a people, whom, from the beginning, one soul own form reflected, has no eye for truth and cannot discera animated-a cool, resolute, stedfast purpose of preeminence, its glory. The true scholar has no partial or selfish ends. germinant in the breasts of its first heroes, and spreading His own interests and advancement are no part of his plan. like sap through the outer and growing branches of the He seeks truth, not truth's. The Scholars Purity. Full of hope and cheer is the voice of the holy Jesus, from the Mount, proclaiming-"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God!" How profound the import of that blessed promise! With how glad and awakening an impulse does it stir our soul's depths, when we may catch some glimpse of its sacred meaning! The spirit that was benighted hath now" 'great light," and realms of darkness that were in it become transparent to its own vision. Then "as the plant of the orient beam," does it turn itself to this new brightness, and for weakness puts on an assumed and unconquerable strength; for the way and the end thereof are one, and a clear light streams all along it from above. If the pure in heart shall see, yea and do see Him, who is the Sun, the Centre, the Source of all knowledge, shall they not much more be admitted to the unclouded beholding of all lower and less knowledges ?-which are but fragments of a mirror reflecting partially and with rude distortions, or a mysterious page, whose syllables only we can faintly trace and uncertainly spell out. A LEAF FROM INDIAN ISLAND. BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE WHITE ROSE OF LEON," &c. No boisterous winds or stormes come hither, Herrick. Thy soft sweet earth! but, like a spring, Love keep it ever flourishing. The reader, if he has perused the sketch of Indian Island, may be inclined to linger again in that little realm of romance, and listen to some of the wild and airy stories that venerable tradition, or playful fancy, has peopled it with. I have seen a talkative old gentleman, with one foot in the grave and the other on its borders, who would give the world for a listener; and when he found one would grasp the button of his coat, and almost cry for joy at the prospect of pouring into a living ear, without measure measureless, the reminiscences half truth, half fiction of his past life. I leave the quick-witted reader to draw his own inference from this instance of garrulity, and point it at whom he pleases, with a hope, however, that he will not deem it applicable to any of that unfortunate class of indi Therefore is it that we are so often in ignorance and perplexing doubt, because sin has entered and defiled us. Therefore can we "hardly discern aught the things that are before us," and grope darkly among proximates and im-viduals-yelept prosing authors. mediates, and feebly apprehend the law and life that are beyond them. Therefore are our eyes dim, and our sight bounded by a narrow horizon, and the space within crowded with fantastic shapes, as of troubled sleep, or of an overcast dawning. The poison of an evil will has infected our whole being, stained our affections with earthliness, and clouded our intellect with noisome vapors; and it is only as this power is stayed from its mischievous working, and brought into some degree of harmony with the divine law of truth, that our perceptions become clear again. The true Scholar, then, avoids every impure thought, every low and unworthy desire, not only because it is a sin, but also because it darkens and contracts his eyeball, and dwarfs him in his growth. He is devout, not only because his daily meditations on the manifestations of Infinite Wisdom and Perfect Goodness constrain him to be so, but also because a seeker after truth must be so, in his own nature and by virtue of the object he pursues. Every step in virtue is a step in knowledge. For it has given us a new proof of the excellence of goodness, of the beauty of wisdom, and of those noble qualities in man which make him "a little lower than the Angels." Every step in virtue is a means to the attainment of further knowledge, for it enlivens every power of heart and mind, and as an "eye-brightening electuary," gives us a piercing and far-reaching sight. Hast thou thine eye purged, thy sin and perverseness cleansed? Then shalt thou hereafter behold the uncreated beauty, even as now thou seest glories in this low world, which are for such only as thyself. Surely as they are its effluence and manifestation, is thy clear vision a token and assurance of that which yet shall be. It is the experience of most men, who are accustomed to reflect on the processes of their inward life, that the face of nature changes with the moral change within them-that with some notable and outbreaking transgression, "a glory has passed away from earth," and that every act of cheerful endurance or brave well doing, gives an unwonted splendor to the sky and a fresh beauty to the earth. As envy discolors the fair character of those we hate, so pride and lust make us see only misshapen ugliness, where to the innocent are only beauty and fair proportion. To the purified spirit, the world is yet the Paradise of God. Boston, Mass. F. M H. One of the most interesting spots on this little island is a lonely and secluded grove of splendid forest-trees. I am convinced there is not within the vision of the "all-beholding sun," a place so singularly quiet and solitary. Zimmerman would have made a pilgrimage to the world's end to have found it. The trees are tall, dark and gloomy, as though for ages they had received nothing but the outpourings of the blackest thunder-clouds. Leaves fall from them in Autumn, but once on the earth, and they never stir againin fact not a breath of air sufficiently powerful to rustle them, seems ever to have found its way there. The birds fly over it in countless myriads, but have never built their nests in the branches of its trees, or from them welcomed the light of day with their wild and merry song. A ray of sunshine, or a moonbeam, would be as perfectly lost there as a sinner on the shores of the better world. The morning's dawn, the garish light of mid-day and evening's pensive twilight are unknown; a deep and melancholy tint spreads over it during the day, bringing into strange relief the venerable trees, that look like sheeted ghosts in the surrounding gloom; and at night, darkness thick and palpable as that which rested on the earth before light was called forth, drops its mantle upon it. Yet, notwithstanding all this, there is a magical influence about the spot that finds its way to every heart; and associated as it is in my mind with some of the pleasantest reminiscences of by-gone days, and the recollection of some choice spirits who once strewed the pathway of my existence with sunshine and flowers, but who now sleep undisturbed in the grave, I have felt in wandering along its narrow and secluded path, that I was treading upon enchanted ground. I have an indistinct recollection of having heard, a long time ago, of a lonely lake, among the mountains of Scotland, whose waters were as calm and quiet as if no wind had ever stirred, or fisher's net, or oar ever rippled them-a lake as sombre and melancholy as the tradition which a Highlander will call up over his warm peat fire, of a cold winter's evening, while the wind is whistling and the tempest raging without. Such a spot is this island-grove. No vestige of life can be seen about it; there is heard no murmur of bee, no song of bird; the animals of the forest do not even haunt its immemorial gloom. Your footsteps are inaudible, for they are over the fallen leaves of many au Autumn, and thus you may wander for hours undisturbed by your own tread. No thought of the outer world-from which you are as completely debarred as though in the midst of the desert-visits you, the only living thing there. | his countenance sparkling with good humor and content, and A thought of death and of the grave disrobed of all its awful lit up with that peculiar smile of his that realized more than terrors, steals over you-hopes of a future inheritance that you never enjoyed before dawn upon your soul-and in that magnificent cathedral, the only visible worshipper, the spirit of prayer, comes upon you, and you are irresistibly impelled to fall upon your knees and worship HIM, whose existence was before the morning stars sang together, and whose reign is through the unnumbered years of eternity, over that spiritual world of beauty and loveliness, whose blessedness and peace reign in every heart, and songs of melody and music burst from every lip. any that I have ever seen, the beautiful thought of the poet"making sunshine in a shady place." He had been buffeted about hither and thither upon the world, had travelled upon land and water, made hair-breadth 'scapes that would have charmed even Desdemona's ear, had narrowly escaped the vultures of the battle-field and the sharks of the ocean, and had at last, after many mishaps and perilous adventures, settled down upon the island to spend the evening of his days, and divided his time between hunting and fishing. He was a universal favorite, and collected a crowd around him wherever he strolled, delighting them with all kinds of marvellous stories of battles by land and by sea, and strange adventures with ghosts and goblins in old grave-yards. Our present excursion was a very pleasant one. We visited the secluded grove, and I was more than ever impressed with its beauty and singularity. As we jumped There is a mound of earth in this grove to which I have often directed my footsteps. Often have I lingered about that wild and lonely grave, and seated upon the rich and verdant grass that covers it, played with the flowers that there unfolded their paradise of perfumed leaves, and weaved bright dreams of the fairer flower that Time the tomb-builder had snatched from the vision of mortals and buried in that soli-into our little skiff to return homewa.ds, we paused for a tude. And as the unbidden tear has stolen down my cheeks, I have pictured to myself some beautiful being over whom sorrow had never cast its nun-like veil, froin whose heart happiness once bubbled up like the waters of a perennial fountain, over whose cheek the rose and the lily once sported, and whose voice was sweeter than the song of the lark, wandering down through the mists and dews of eventide from the far wall of heaven. And as I have dreamed such dreams, I have thought that when life's fitful fever was over and the sands of my existence had run down, it would reconcile me to the fiat of the "dread Azrael," to know that they would bury me in such a place, where friends "bonny and true" might come out from the busy haunts of earth and shed a tear to my memory, and where she, the bright and beautiful star whom I had worshipped with a wild idolatry, might print with her light footstep the virgin turf, and scattered the first flowers of Spring over my solitary grave. a This enchanted spot has furnished materials for many wild and dreamy tradition, and has to this day its presiding ghosts and goblins. Let us hope, that when America shall have roused from her present slumbers and smiled on her native poets, some one will be found to embalm these beautiful legends in immortal verse, and waft them down the stream of time in the sparkling cadences of American melody. The credulous reader will readily believe the much to be accredited stories of those who have sojourned on the island, who have frequently seen strange figures stalking through the grove, and heard sounds as of the battlecry of some warrior-chieftain who might once have held sovereignty over that peaceful region. Of course it is to be hoped that he will not for a moment disbelieve the following strange and romantic, but true narrative. On a mild and pleasant evening, during one of the genial months of last Spring, I made an excursion to Indian Island. My companion was a favorite old angler, who had seen service in the cause of his country, and boasted that he had "sent day-light" through many a British soldier's body, and lost a leg in a hard-fought battle for the greatest nation on the face of the earth. Venerable Ralph Starbourd! I have his weather-beaten and jolly face at this moment before my eyes, with the old song that he used to be so fond of humming, ringing merrily in my ears: "Why, soldiers, why Should we be melancholy boys? Whose business 'tis to die!" It was worth a whole mint of fairy gold, to hear him sing that fine old air and keep time to it with his wooden leg; moment to look back upon it. The trees were indistinctly seen, the shadow of midnight seemed already to cover them, while every thing around them was bathed in the beautiful and glowing tints of the setting sun. Our passage home was over the calm and waveless waters of the Ohio. Not a breath stirred abroad or rippled the surface of that silvery stream; but there was a perceptible swell in the waters, as though the queen of water-nymphs slumbered below and moved them with the gentle and steady heave of her snowy bosom. The loveliness of the evening infused its magie into the heart of the old fisherman, and many were the wild stories that he recounted as we floated listlessly along. Among others, was one connected with the grove of which I have spoken, which interested me at the time, and though it will doubtless lose much of its interest, may not prove wholly unworthy of repetition. It was as follows: Many years ago, when all this "wide forest land" was still a blooming wilderness, a young Virginian, accompanied by his sister, a very pretty girl of some sixteen summers, emigrated to the West and fixed their residence on this island. No trace can now be found of that residence, but, if common rumor is to be believed, they spared no trouble or expense in beautifying and embellishing it, rendering it in the course of time beautiful as one of the boasted palaces that adorned the classic shores of Cytherea, "When Venus rose Out of the sea, and with her life did fill He was a bold, active and daring man. Young, ardent and impetuous, he delighted in deeds of daring adventurewas one of the keenest of the Hunters of Kentucky, and would often in his hunting excursions spend whole days in chasing the wild deer and the buffalo over the tremendous cliffs or knobs of the adjacent country, which then abounded with all kinds of game. His sister, on the other hand, was a gay and cheerful girl, but happy and contented in ber home, she scarcely ever sought amusement or pleasure out of it. She has been described as gentle and accomplished, and lovely as a poet's brightest imaginings of Paradise-the beautiful Calypso of this enchanted isle. Heaven had blessed them with bealth, and earth, air and water seemed to be in treaty to add to their comfort and happiness, and render their existence one long and sunny lapse of uninterrupted delight. It was in the “leafy month of June" when they first took up their abode on the island, and it then more than realized their dreams of fairy. land. It was a scene of beauty and luxuriance such as they had never beheld, even among the magnificent ralleys of their own native state. The forest-trees had assumed the brilliant hues of Spring; millions of birds were building tears that would have relieved and refreshed her, as the their nests among the leaves and making the air vocal with things upon her lip; the world was to her no longer a fairy their sweetest songs; the streams just released from their palace, but a barren desert without its singing bird, sparkwinter captivity were singing like so many merry bac-ling fountain or green tree; sleep scarcely ever visited her; chanals; the Ohio, that graceful queen of rivers, was sweeping quietly along, now prattling with the pebbles on its shores, and now dashing its shower of diamonds into the sunshine, while myriads of fish sported through its clear and crystal waters. The air was redolent of perfumes from wild flowers of every hue and fragrance; even the heavens seemed to smile propitiously upon them. At evening they would go out and watch the rich and gauzy lilac-tint in the west as it melted into the deep blue of the sky, and as star after star trembled forth, they imagined that they were brighter and lovelier than those that in their childhood they had thought the eyes of the angels of Heaven! Bringing the earth her lovely things again, Several years had passed and gone since her death. The island was deserted, and they who had caused it to blossom like the rose had passed from the remembrance of the people of the surrounding country, or if recalled by any it was with a tear for their hapless and melancholy fate. the little mound of earth and sprinkling the flowers that bloomed upon it with his fast falling tears. The hunter gazed upon the scene with bewildered eye. It cannot be he," thought he. "He has been dead many years and, yet I'd be sworn it is him. I have hunted with him too often not to know him through that disguise." The old man approached nearer to the mourner, and beheld indeed with great joy the long lost brother of the young girl at her grave! Two Summers thus passed away, and Time, that sad destroyer of youth's airy castles, seemed to have passed over One day an old sportsman in pursuit of game wandered them with a charmed wing. One bright and sunny morning over to the little island. Towards evening fatigued and in Autumn the young man equipped himself for the hunt, broken down with the exercise of the day, he sat down on and, gaily kissing his sister, and bidding her be of good cheer the trunk of a tree which the hurricane had felled, and soon until he returned at dark, he sallied forth. Night came-the fell asleep. In a little time he was aroused from his slumstars shone brightly on the old forest, and the maiden whis- ber by some unusual sound. Hurrying towards the place pered to herself, "they will light him on his way home" from which it proceeded, he entered the solitary grove of midnight, lone midnight came on, and her brother had not which I have spoken; but on listening for some moments returned, yet hope had not deserted her. Sleep at length he was convinced that his ear had for once deceived him, settled down like a blessed spirit upon her eye-lids. Her and turned to retrace his steps, when he beheld the tall form slumber was, however, broken by unpleasant dreams, and at of an Indian over the grave of the young maiden. His eyes length she awoke, and after many ineffectual efforts to com- bedewed with tears, his manly and beautiful features expose herself again to sleep, she left her couch and went to pressive of the most poignant grief, and his form bent unher chamber window. The night was unusually beautiful;der the weight of some secret sorrow, he was kneeling upon the stars were glittering afar and lighting up hill and tree and wood with their silvery rays; the moon had risen, and like a pearly bark was sailing up the still and quiet ocean of Heaven, and the roar of the neighboring falls was borne upon the wind like the shout of an armed host on the tide of battle. It was the only noise that disturbed the repose of nature, but it was not unpleasant to the maiden's ear. The chill night-air caused her to fold her dress still closer to her breast, and she turned to seek her pillow, when all at once she heard the well known footstep of her brother. It proceeded from the porch outside of her room, and seemed more low and measured than was usual. Thinking that she might be mistaken, she listened attentively, but in vain, for a recurrence of the sound. After a few minutes she again heard it pacing slowly over the porch. At length it approached her door, and stopped as if to enter the apartment. On waiting a moment she went to the door-her brother was not there-a loud and wailing shriek issued from a tree before the door, and presently a screech-owl darted past the terrified maiden. The shriek of that ill-omened bird has struck terior to the heart of those over whose minds superstition held no sway, and it is not at all strange, that to a lovely girl predisposed to such wild fancies it seemed the precursor of bad tidings. She slept no more that night. Days elapsed and yet her brother was not heard of; she called upon his name in a tone that would almost have disturbed the sleep of the dead, and filled the air with her cries, but the echo of her own voice was the only reply that reached her ear. Autumn passed away and Winter had cast its snowy veil over the fallen leaves, and she whose form was more delicate than the flowers that herald the approach of fairy-footed Spring, whom the winds were not permitted to visit too roughly, wandered alone, unfriended and despairing about the deserted island, shivering at midnight on the winter banks of the Ohio, and mingling her tears with the torrents that froze as they fell!" 66 These were the first moments of real grief that had ever crossed her sunny mind, and their effect was speedy and terrible. The rose faded from her cheek, the light from her eye was gone, and the long dark lashes drooped in gloom over it; the smile and the song were checked like guilty VOL. VI-103 The old hunter after much persuasion induced him to accompany him home, and as they walked along the Virginian recounted the adventures he had met with since his sudden disappearance. He said that on returning from the hunt at night, he reached home before he discovered that he had parted from a favorite hound that always accompanied him on such excursions. He returned to look for him, and was taken captive by a band of Indians and carried off to a far distant country near the headwaters of the Mississippi. How he fared thereafter, kind reader-how he escaped and was recaptured-how, when the deathsman stood beside him, and his head was upon the block, a young Indian maiden rushed between them and plead for his life-how, listening to the sweet voice of her who rescued him and gazing into the clear depths of her dark and passionate eyes, love plead against stern duty, and he forgot another whose voice was tremulous with sorrow, and whose eye was dimmed by continual and sleepless watching for his return-how he loved that forest-maiden and marked not the flight of days, weeks and months, until death snatched her from him-how he escaped from the Indians and sought his sister and found her not; are particulars to which I will not ask your attention. He spent his whole time on the island, night and day. For many months, he did not leave it. He never was seen to smile. Those who had known him in happier times tried every method to console him, but in vain. He was indifferent alike to the fascinations of society and the blandishments of friendship. At last he disappeared, and was seen in his Indian dress crossing a distant mountain and wending his way towards the setting sun. He was never heard of again. HOPE. What is Hope? a star that gleaming To reveal what there may lie. Wild and fitful is its splendor, Flashing thro' the storm-cloud's night, Fills the air with soft perfume, Like the rainbow proudly flinging MIRTH AND SADNESS. R. A. P. The idea of this short Essay was suggested by reading the following words by the accomplished poetess: "Chide not her mirth who yesterday was sad, "There was a sound of revelry by night; The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men.” I heard the shout of victory echoing through the battlefield; I beheld an army which had conquered its enemies; I approached to listen to the song of joy, but that sound was lost amid the groans of the dying: and the blood-stained soil was heavy beneath the tread of the victorious. Mirth and Sadness weighed upon the hearts of all, but still heavier did it weigh upon his heart who was the chief victor. I heard the sound of music, when the dance and the winecup went gaily round, and beheld a bridegroom and his bride: I looked at them, for I wished to feast my eyes upon a picture of happiness, but I turned away disappointed; for a thought of the dreamless future caused the young hearts to tremble. They came to the spot children of Mirth, but they departed the victims of Sadness. I heard a sigh which floated on the bosom of midnight, and beheld in the solitude of his chamber a child of intellect-a poet. He was wasting the oil of his existence over the pages of classic lore; and by the help of the taper, I could behold thoughts of immortality stamped upon his brow. He was dreaming of Fame; and as his eye rested on its glittering pinnacle which met his gaze, far, far in the distance, the recollection of his unworthiness, and its own real worthlessness, made him yield up his hopes in despair. The joy of his young ambition was at last crushed in Sorrow and Sadness. Such is the checkered lot of life. There are no enjoy. ments, no pleasures, no gratifications of mere earthly nature, To think on the passions of men is an instructive but ever but which, in their ultimate end, are darkened by the shaa sorrowful task. When we remember the trifling causes, dows of Sadness. When we have looked upon the works of and often melancholy results of anger, revenge, and many Nature, and delighted ourselves in their transcendent loveother evil passions of the human heart, we are constrained liness;-upon the works of art, and admired them; and to weep over the weakness of our nature. When we think upon our friends whom we love with the tenderest feelings of the many trials which originate from love--that passion of the heart; the thought that they must all change, causes a universally considered as the foundation of happiness-feeling of sadness to come over our fondest hopes and aspihow many feelings of sorrow spring up to darken our thoughts! How many scenes of disappointment and unhappiness can we recall, as the offspring of that holy passion when perverted or interrupted in its proper course! rations. As we have thought how rapidly the beauties of Nature were passing away, how soon the monuments of Art would crumble into dust, and that our friends, one by one, were sinking into the grave; we have exclaimed in the bitterness of sorrow, "all things under the sun are vanity and vexation of spirit." We well know from experience of the past, that Mirth and Sadness will never separate on earth; but through the gloom which rests upon our souls, we discover, in the distance of futurity, a land—a beautiful Mirth and Sadness belong to the same great class: but the scenes in which they bear a part are far more numerous and varied. One singular fact respecting them is, they are seldom seen far-distant from each other, but almost ever in each other's company. It is not in our power to pry into the secrets of this great mystery; but let us, for our instruc-land. tion, look at a few of those scenes when Mirth and Sadness may be discovered mingling their contrary elements. The page of history is full of them. Leonidas, with his little band of Spartans, went forth joyfully to meet the enemy; but when they thought of their wives and children, and of the blood which must be spilt, they were sad and sorrowful. The battle was fought, and that noble band of warriors poured out their blood for their weeping country; and when Xerxes ordered the head of his conquered enemy to be ignominiously exposed to public view upon a cross, was it not the madness of mirth, and might not too the agony of remorse and sadness soon have place in his bosom? "O ye troubled pair, When ye have no part in the Summer air; If these things be true, (and of this the voice of Nature may convince us,) let us remember that it is the righteous alone who are permitted to enter that land from whose bourn no traveller would ever wish to return. In the same proportion as the allurements of this life engross our attenton, will all our joys end in disappointment and sorrow. There On that night preceding the battle of Waterloo, how exists only one adequate support for the calamities of morstrangely mingled were the passions of men! tal life-and that is |