a heavy heart I bade them farewell, having previously obtained a promise that I should every week receive a letter from home. The promise was faithfully kept, for regularly the Tuesday's mail brought a letter from Emily, filled with all that delightful chit chat which a woman only knows how to write, and which is so agreeable to a lover's eye and heart. These letters were no less regularly answered, for my pleasantest recreation at that time consisted in the innocent enjoyment of perusing and reperusing her epistles, and in replying to them. This continued until the month of January, at which time the weather became so unusually mild for the season, that a steamer was advertised to start for N, distant only about twenty miles from my home. The opportunity was not to be neglected, and accompanied by one of my fellow workmen, I started for the landing. On reaching the wharf we found that the boat had started a few minutes before. Alas! my friend, what tremendous consequences were involved in the delay of these few minutes. Sad and disappointed we strolled along toward the residence of my companion, and on arriving at his door I accepted his invitation to stay and sup with him. He had noticed my dejected countenance, and by way of diverting my melancholy thoughts, he proposed that we should look in at one of the theatres in the neighborhood. For the first time in my life I witnessed a dramatic performance, and I need not assure you how delighted I was at the mimic representation. The melancholy feelings with which I had entered the doors of that temple of pleasure had entirely vanished, and the proposal of my friend to join a supper party was most willingly assented to by me.'

Williams had proceeded thus far in his narration, when the breeze, which had been for some time gradually freshening, had now increased so much that it was considered necessary to shorten sail. The first mate, whose watch it was, accordingly gave orders to that effect, and Williams, merely stopping long enough to assure me that he would resume his story on the following evening, sprang up the main rigging, and I saw no more of him for that night. I soon after betook myself to my berth.

[END OF THE FIRst part.]

H. H.

THE FLOWER'S LESSON.

"I will be as the dew.”—Hosza.

I saw in the vale a fragile flower
Lift up its delicate head:

And 'round the path of the morning hour,
The breath of its perfume shed.

And thither the bright winged insect flew,
The sweets of its cup to sip,

Or to kiss off the drops of sparkling dew
That hung on its rosy lip.

But the summer's sun arose in its might,
And that flower drooped its head;
And pale grew the petals, before so bright,
As it sunk on its grassy bed.

And all of that bright and youthful throng,
Who had joined at early day,

In the giddy dance and the merry song,
Flew from that flower away.

So lonely it lay on the valley's breast,
With its leaflets all faded and sear;
With no kind attendant to pillow its rest,
Or to shed o'er its sorrows a tear.

But at eve, as I turned again to the place,
That withered flower to view,

A sunbeam smiled o'er its freshened face,
More bright than its morning hue.

And sweeter far was the zephyr's song,
That wafted its fragrance at night,
Than the merry shout of the faithless throng,
Who had danced in the morning light.

Its fragrant petals aside I drew,

As its head raised calmly up;

And sparkling drops of the evening dew,
Fell from its odorous cup.

"Tis thus, when the joys of our folly depart,
And the ties of false friendship are riven,
The dew drops of mercy fall soft on the heart,
And it blooms with the flowers of Heaven.

H. J. V.

METAPHYSICS.

The body knows no sympathy,

That's the proud privilege of the MIND.
'Tis like a living spark that's hid
Beneath an alabaster lid.

LUIS DE CAMOES.

ALTHOUGH at the bare mention of this formidable term one asks instinctively, Can these dry bones live? still, despite the known and often expressed opinion of the Reading Public, we venture to offer something very like a defense of Metaphysical science. Not, indeed, of a certain gigantic phantom, clad in the dusky drapery of German nomenclature, but as it really exists. The "New Lights" of the nineteenth century would have us believe that truth can never gain admittance to the mind, unless she approaches disguised by the trappings of an uncouth phraseology. Ideas simple and easily recognized under their ordinary forms, now flourish as new discoveries-proofs of analytical acuteness-landmarks for coming generations. At present, if a writer wishes to give a few hints concerning the origin of thought, or merely indicate the primary powers of the mind, he commences, "Let us now institute an inquiry into the origin of the subjective Primitive." Does he believe in the evidence of Consciousness, he has a "Conscious Cognition" of the fact; would he point you to an emblem of eternity, "behold," cries he, "a fit representation of the illimitable Infinite." We would not detract a tythe from the merited reputation of the true Pioneer; but why, in the name of all that is rational, need we, by imitating the faults and absurdities of a favorite author, leave the pure, native pearl to slumber undisturbed, while we gather with pious care into our cabinets, the rough and unsightly shell? The prejudice, arising from this circumstance, is not in itself unjust, but embraces too wide a circle, blindly disregarding the difference between mere adventitious appearances, and what pertains to the true character of the subject.

Metaphysics, in reality is, and ever ought to be, an exposition of the nature and operations of the human mind, and as such, has in every age commanded the most earnest attention. Open at random the volume of the Past, a continual recurrence of the same questions and the same solutions, offers convincing evidence of some deep-rooted inquisitiveness-some universal longing in the heart of man to understand his spiritual Nature. Accordingly, we find India and Greece, Germany and France, have each acknowledged three systems of Philosophy; present

VOL. VIL

ing, too, in their first principles, a most remarkable degree of similarity. Each sought in these an explanation of the doubts which ever beset the inquirer at the very outset of his meditations. Here we discover the first philosophical corruption of primitive Revelation. These systems are, first, a belief in the self-existent energy of Nature, and of Thought or Intelligence: next, a belief in that of Intelligence alone-a theory strikingly analogous to that of Berkely, and one involving the sublime error, that the "chief good" lay in a complete abstraction from all things outward and visible, and thus, at last, attaining to a state of Deity; for, as they argued, God was thought: and finally, a belief in the existence of a self-active Nature only; in other words, that the inherent activity of matter was the sole cause, not merely of our own being, but also of those surprising phenomena, which, by their constant recurrence, have almost failed to attract the slightest attention. It is not now requisite to trace the various effects of these several systems; nor must it be inferred that we here possess the clue to every speculation that has ever perplexed the brain of Man; but whatever other deductions may be drawn from this remarkable coincidence, it certainly exhibits, in a most striking aspect, the natural tendency of thought, under every variety of circumstance and condition. The cause must reside in the structure of the Mind itself: the secret lies in the restless desire of Man to resolve his destiny; and its ultimate satisfaction has so racked his reason, that in these latter days, the voice of despair, ascending from an intelligent, though misguided people, has been heard to exclaim, "there is no truth save one; Death is a never-ending sleep.”

Bare precept affords no quiet to the soul; it must have knowledge. The fall of every Religion that debars investigation, has been decreed; for it wars against the first principles of our nature-confidence in the fundamental laws of human belief. This ground must be admitted, prior to all argument; for upon it all argument is ultimately based; and without this admission, the slightest progress is wholly impracticable. So firmly do we retain this idea, that whatever is contrary to their dictates, we feel convinced must be false, not only in this world, but throughout the intelligent universe: else what meaning can we attach to that oft-repeated sentiment-whatever is contrary to reason, is impossible? It is upon this assurance that all human philosophy rests. "Error, to be permanent, must be combined with truth." And it is through the belief induced by partial examination-by an examination of the fair side alone, that we cling to it with such tenacity.

What joy is felt by the soul as it unfolds the operations of its own immortal nature! All that is outward is transient as

the summer's dew; but within, we behold the germs of a power whose expansion will but commence when the last trump shall sound the knell of time. There is an eloquence in reason, not such as stirs the feelings from their inmost depths, but the eloquence of calm, quiet satisfaction; for we welcome truth like some bosom friend, and feel, that though the storm of opinion lash itself to fury, there is one rock will stand unmoved amid this chaos, upon which we may rest secure. What glorious vision breaks upon the sight! it is the world of self-of thought and feeling; the world of motive and the springs of action. Here we behold the Passions lulled into a deceptive calm; here Reason, marshaling our ideas by their appropriate laws; here the Will, the more immediate manifestation of our spiritual nature. Who would not know himself? Incarnate mystery!

Reflection elevates and purifies the mind; each object assumes its proper shape and due proportion; the illusions of sense no longer deceive us; the relation we sustain to each other and to duty; the beauty of Virtue, and the proper aim and end of being, appeal with almost the force and persuasive influence of some new revelation. Yet it is said that human philosophy congeals the heart; as if that heart could chill, while it views the electric chain of sympathy which binds it to the million bosoms throbbing in unison with all that is noble or exalted within the soul. Behold that soul watching the development of its own energies! How it writhes and strains its earthly fetters. We feel enthusiasm as we view the attributes of Deity. Are we not moved by the struggle of a spirit, formed "in his image," to comprehend its own mysterious power? Yes, though while confined within this "tabernacle of clay," but partial knowledge be our lot, "this eager hope, this fond desire, this longing after immortality," points to a future where we shall кNow even as we shall be known.

M. W.

TO A SNOW FLAKE.

SPIRIT of purity! frail messenger,

Celestial! daughter meek of parents fierce!

White-robed virgin! sky-mere voyager!

I wonder thou should'st through yon dark cloud pierce.
From what bleak region, wandering hast thou come ?
Hast crossed the seas? Or on the mountain top
First felt the fearful gift of wings? Thy home

Is in the skies; yet ne'er thy course shall stop,
Vagrant and fickle-mist, dew, hail, or water-drop.