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ions, who has only known man as a comrade in villainy or depravity, and woman as a victim or a courtezan: for such a man, though his halls and palaces reek with the incense of art, though his galleries are temples to the idolatry of genius, whatever spirits may minister to him, whatever majesty bend over or around him, whatever incentives to mental aspiration are there-such an one is dead to the enchantments of true taste. There is not a beauty in the long corridor but it may suggest a polluting image; and purity, the foundation principle of all true art and delight in art, retires from the home of the animal, spite of its magnificence and its pomp.
In purity of soul, in that perfect unclothing of the soul from passion, defilement, and sin, it is said Taste has its origin. I would instance, too, as at once the author and educator of a refined Taste, Courtesy; that gentleness and kindliness, that loving and loveliness, which interpenetrates all the children of genius. That cannot be a Home of Taste where the affections do not play most delightfully; and they cannot so play in the home of the vehement and angry man. That cannot be such a home where children do not appear in the gentleness of children, and woman in the gentleness of woman. We have treatises on politeness, we have rules for gentlemanly bearing---rubbish too worthless to cast behind the fire. There are Lord Chesterfield's three volumes of letters, containing admirable knowledge of the world, admirable English composition, and admirable recipes for transforming a human being into a monkey, a machine, a hypocrite, or a villain. It has been truly said that the goat which crouched down to allow its brother goat to pass over its back on the precipice, exhibited more true gentility than is to be found in the whole of Lord Chesterfield's letters. Courtesy is a beautiful thing, it
Makes the rough paths of peevish nature even, And opens in the breast a little heaven. It is the due of man to man, not of gentleman to gentleman-indeed it transforms all men into gentlemen. Man never exhibits so true, so refined a taste, as when he blends the kindness and pathos of a loving soul with the dignity
of an immortal one. Wherever such a man lives, there must be a noble deportment-there must be noble thoughts and expressions-his life must be a lovely poem-his walk and citizenship a lovely picture-he must breathe his spirit into his wife, children, friends, and the whole surrounding circle. His must be a Home of Taste. (To be continued.)
IF you will go with me now to a glen in the highlands, and a willow-shaded nook, I will point out to you the very spot where years ago there stood a rude bench, on which many times have I seen the fair girl I now write of, sitting, and by which I once saw her kneeling. The cottage under the hill is occupied by strangers, and its broad halls and large rooms now ring to the laughter of those that knew not her whose gentle spirit haunts their very chambers.
She was as beautiful as a dream. Never was holier forehead shaded by raven tresses; never were tresses so glorious as those. If I tell you that I loved Sarah D- -, you will call me an enthusiast, and ascribe my admiration to my passion. I did love her, but only as a boy worships a being very far above him. I used to lie at her feet on the grass, and gaze into her face, and watch the play of her excellent features. It was there I learned at first how high, and pure, and worshipful, humanity may be.
* * *
She was young and beautiful. What need to add that she was loved? Surely I need not add that she loved, for such as she live on affection, and die for lack of it. Her father devoted his fortune and his life to her; and she was heiress to a large estate. As might be expected, she had numberless suitors of every rank and variety. I cannot now remember all of them, although I then kept the run of them tolerably well. But, of all, there were only two that appeared to have any prospect of suc cess; and the village gossips were occupied in discusssing their relative chances.
was the gayest, besthearted fellow in the world; and had
you seen him on his horse by the side of Sarah D, you would have said he was made for her, so wild was his laugh, and so joyous her response. Yet, had you been behind the closed shutter of the window in front of the large white house on the hill, as they rode by, and had you there watched the compressed lip, the broad, calm forehead, the pale face and speaking eye of Joseph S- as he saw them passing, you would have prayed to God that that fair girl might belong to that noble man, even as I, a boy, then prayed.
God has answered my prayers. When the long way was travelled over, and the rugged and difficult steep surmounted; when her fairy foot was pressed on the rock at the summit of the hill of life, and her eyes gazed into the deep blue sky with longing gaze; there, even there, beyond the blue, his outstretched arms received her, and his embrace was heaven!
Go, preach to blocks and stones, ye who believe love is of the clay! Go, preach to the dead, ye who deny the immortality of the affections. Go, reason with trees, or hills, or images of wood, or with your own motionless, lifeless, icy souls, ye who believe that, because there is no marrying yonder, there shall be no embracing, or because we may not use the gentle words "my wife," we may not clasp these sanctified forms in our own holy arms! I tell you, man, that immortality would be a glorious cheat, if with our clay died our first affections. I tell you that annihilation would be heaven, if I believed that, when my head at length rests on my coffined pillow, and my lips sink to the silence and repose of death, these loving eyes will never look into mine again-this pure clasp never be around my neck-this holy caress will never bless me more.
But see how I hasten in advance of my story. And yet, like Channing's knife-grinder, I remember now that I have no story to tell, or at best it is but a simple history.
She loved Joe. His calm and earnest way of loving her, won her whole soul. He did not say much to her in company, nor of her; but when they
were alone, or only some of the children near, his low voice would be musical, and she sat entranced in its eloquence. I have seen them seated on the bench by the side of the stream, and have heard him lead her gentle soul step by step with him from earth to stars, and then from star to star, until she seemed to be in heaven with him, and listening to the praises of the angels.
I am unable to tell you how it happened that Joseph S left his profession, (which had been the law,) and entered the ministry, nor am I able to state, though I might guess at the causes operating in his own mind. father of Sarah D- was not a religious man; and, I am sorry to say, was one of a small class of men, who not only deny the truths of our most holy creed, but take every opportunity to cast ridicule on its teachers. It was, therefore, with great pain that his daughter observed his coldness and rudeness to Joseph S, and she was not surprised, however much grieved, when an open rupture rendered a suspension of his visits at the house absolutely necessary.
They had never spoken of love. Each knew the secret of the other's affection, and what need then of words to tell it? It would have been but the repetition of hackneyed phrases. And yet there is no music in the world so sweet as those three words, from the lips we love to kiss. But the father of our gentle friend had feared the existence of some bond between them, and peremptorily required his daughter to break it, if it did exist.
She replied to him, relating the simple truth, and he desired her to re fuse thenceforward to see or speak to Joseph.
A month of deeper pain than can well be imagined succeeded this command, during which they did not meet.
It was on a moon-light night in August that she walked out with me, (then a boy three years her junior,) and sat down on the bench by the side of the stream. The air was clear, the sky serene, and no sound disturbed us; but the soft voice of the wind among the tree tops made a pleasant music, and we listened and were silent. The
stillness was broken by the voice of face of an angel. It wore that same exJoseph Salted look until she died.
You will pardon me if I pass over that scene. I dare not attempt a description of it. It was my first lesson in human suffering, and though I have learned it over and over since then, though the iron has entered my own soul and seared and scarred it, yet I have never seen, nor do I believe I have ever felt, more agony than those two felt, as they parted that night no more to meet on earth.
He bowed his lips to her forehead, and murmured the solemn words, "For ever."
She woke at that word, and exclaimed, with startling vehemence, "No, no; there is no such word, Joe."
"We shall not meet again on earth, my gentle one. And what is earth?"
Her tall form grew more queenly, and her dark eye flashed divinely, as she rose and exclaimed, in clear and silvery tones:
"And what is earth? These things must end. I will name a tryst, dear Joe, and you shall keep it. If you pass first into the other land, wait for me on the bank; and if I go hence before you, I will linger on the other shore until you come. Will you remember?"
"I will live and die in this memory." She lifted her face to his, and her arms to his neck, and they clung together in a long and passionate embrace. Their lips did not separate, but were pressed close together, until he felt her form cold, and her clasp relaxed, and he laid her gently down on the old seat, bowed over her a moment in prayer and was gone. I heard him say, "Take care of her W -," and so I strove to recall the life that had gone from her lips and cheeks and eyes. It came slowly, and she woke as we wake in the morning after death has entered our charmed circle, with an oppression on the brain, and a swimming, sullen, senselessness of soul.
At length she remembered all, and raised herself with a half-articulated exclamation of agony, broken by a sob; then fell on her knees by the bench, and buried her face in her hands, and remained thus for nearly half an hour. When she arose, her face was as the
I think she took cold that night; she was never well afterward, and the next winter she passed at the South, returning in the Spring, very fragile, but very beautiful. Joseph S
was sent abroad by one of the Boards of Missions of the Church; but his health failed, and he resigned his commission, while he travelled through the Eastern world.
Three years fled with their usual swiftness. To Sarah D- they were very slow and painful years; yet she was happy in her quiet way, and no one dreamed of the strange tryst she was longing to keep on the other side of that dark river which men so shrink from. She grew feebler daily as the Summer and Autumn advanced, and in December she was evidently dying.
One day her mother had been out of the house, perhaps making calls. She returned at evening; and, among other incidents of news which she had learned, she mentioned to Sarah the death of her old friend, Joseph S
The fair girl was reclining in her large arm chair, looking out through the closed windows at the snow on the ground, and the pure moonlight which silvered it. There was no startling emotion visible as her mother mentioned the fact, which to her was the most solemn yet the most joyful news the world could give; for now, how much nearer was their meeting! I saw a smile flash across her face as the joyful news reached her ear. I saw her forehead raised to feel the caress which I know she felt! She was silent for many minutes, and then spoke in feeble but musical accents, and I, boyishly, wept aloud! Then she smiled, and looked at me with finger upraised, and said, "Wait a little while longer, dear W- And then, after a moment, she said, "Mother, is the snow very deep?”
"Not very, dear. Why did you ask?" "Because, if it were deep, I thought it would be difficult for old Mr. Smith to find our lot in the grave-yard. Are all the head-stones covered, mother?" "What is the matter Sarah ? What if they are covered?" "Mother, dear, it is useless to conceal
it from ourselves, or from one another. You know, and I quite as well, that I am dying. I have not wished to live; only for one thing did I long for life, and I dreaded to meet death alone! But now I shall not. W- will tell you what I mean when I am gone. Yesgone, dear mother. I shall not be here any longer. This chair will stand here, and I not be anywhere near it. You will be here, and father; and you will rise and walk about, and visit, and go in and out, and sleep, and wake again, and so on day after day, and I shall have no part any longer in your cares and joys-dear mother;" and as she uttered the last two words, she put her arm around her mother's neck, and kissed her fondly, and sank back into her chair again. I sat at her feet watching her matchless features. A smile was flitting across them-now there, now gone; yet each time it appeared, it lingered longer than before, until it became fixed, and so holy, so very holy, that I grew bewildered as I gazed, and a strange tremor passed through my body.
life expended in its creation, and to complacently congratulate ourselves merely as the possessors and represen tatives of this great result. We estimate the action more highly than the actor, we think more of doing than of being-of the mansion than the builder -of civilization than the citizen; and therefore value each individual in proportion to his capability of contributing, to the already vast accumulation, his isolated products, instead of regarding society, with all its riches, as the minister of his needs, and the sphere of acti vity for the exercise of his various faculties, and the development of his nature.
Proceeding in this spirit, society has imposed upon its members a countless diversity of employments, so subdivided and simple, that the action needed for the performance of each is so monotonous, wearying, and purely mechanical, conjoined with the large proportion of time necessarily spent in such occupations, that instead of tending to unfold the faculties, and stimulate the growth of the worker, it deadens the feelings, renders obtuse the perceptions, narrows and stupefies the intellectual powers, and frequently inflicts permanent injury upon the physical frame. It is the same upon every department of industry, but more particularly in the wonderful factories of which England is proud, and the products of which have contributed so largely to her extraordinary wealth and greatness. The same principles pervade society from the lowest to the highest classes; science, philosophy, and even religion, are sub
CIVILIZATION AND THE CITIZEN. ject to its sway; every distinguished
The breath of peace was fanning her glorious brow! Her head was bowed a very little forward, and a tress, escaping from its bonds, fell by the side of her pure white temple, and close to her just opened lips. It hung there motionless. No breath disturbed the repose! She slept as an angel might sleep, having accomplished the mission of her God.-American paper.
BY JOHN CHAPMAN.
An important element in modern civilization is the system of division and subdivision of labour; and doubtless the rapid elevation which that civilization has reached, the splendour, wealth, luxuriance, and innumerable philosophical and mechanical triumphs which it boasts, are, in a great measure, attributable to the application of this system. But this mighty display has been purchased at an enormous cost,—perhaps too dearly. In casting up the nett value of it all, we are apt to leave out of the account the amount of human
man, with a few rare exceptions, is sacrificed at its shrine. The fabric of modern civilization consists of an infinite number of parts, differing in shape and size, held together by a cunning dovetailing of each with each, and thus creating a whole by mechanical conjunction, instead of being an aggregate of independent and individually perfect atoms, constituting a whole by the attraction of gravitation. This wonderful structure, merging the individual in the mass, is justified by its results, as having realized a far greater general progress than could have been attained in the same time by a system which
should attempt an universal culture and development of each individual. If society be considered in reference to its products, without regard so the welfare and destiny of its members, this is possibly true; but if the culture and expansion of man's individual nature is the great aim which our institutions should strive to achieve, then it will be seen how allusive and apparent only is our progress. It is probable that a more enlarged view would shew us, that even the advancement of science, inventions, and the practical application of these manufactures, would not be retarded in the long run,-say a cycle of centuries,-by a careful and general unfolding of each individual. The slow progress made in the beginning would be compensated for by the rapidity which would be subsequently acquired.
SLEEP is the repose of the organs of animal life, in order to afford the vital economy an opportunity to replenish and repair the exhaustion and waste which they have sustained from previous exercise, and perhaps abuse. How beautiful, therefore, is man in this respect adapted to the natural world in which he lives. While light surrounds him he has organs adapted to perceive it, and by its aid to perceive the visual properties of things; and while, with this advantage, he is able to direct his course whithersoever he may choose, and to whatever objects he may desire, he has organs adapted to the olfactory, gustatory, and tangible properties of things, by which he can hear, smell, taste, and touch, and he has powers by which he can think, reflect, judge, reason, will, and act, and thus fulfil the functions and the final causes of his organs of external relation, and supply the wants of the internal domain. But when the light fades away, and darkness gathers around him like the pall of death, his vision is blotted out, and he no longer needs the service of any of his special senses, nor any of the powers of animal life; and when these all naturally require repose, then nature, with a bland and soothing influence, gently seals up his senses, and draws the shroud of ob
livion over his consciousness, and leaves him to rest in the temporary death of all his moral, intellectual, and voluntary power; while the vital economy over which the nerves of organic life preside, unceasingly carries forward its repairing and renovating operations, in order that he may awake, as by a resurrection, to a new existence, refreshed and vigorous, and full of health and happiness in every part.
WORDS AND DEEDS.
FOR the progress of the human race something more is needed than prophecy and song: after all, our sublime ideals, to avail aught in the perfectioning of mankind, must be consolidated in sublime lives; action is greater than speech. An absolute advance of humanity and civilization can only be accomplished by transmitting great thoughts into great facts-by unfolding and enlarging on our nature, and using these new acquisitions as the successive stepping
stones of our ascent.
Many say that Jesuitism is on the increase in this country. What can be done by Protestants to stop its growth? To vote or burn it down will hardly be To us the proper the true method. course seems to be this: to found better schools, and to seek out more selfsacrificing labourers, more earnest missionaries, more persuasive preachers. Let Protestantism quit scolding, and live out a better Christianity than Jesuitism, and the latter cannot succeed.
None should be ashamed of work, for none need be. It is the idler who should blush. Nothing desirable, or good, or great, or glorious, can be obtained without labour-labour of some kind, either of the hand or of the head, generally of both combined. The hard, horny hand of labour is more honourable to its possessor than the delicate jewelled fingers of "privileged" indolence; the sun-burnt brow more worthy of a coronet, than the head of the titled idler. No man is sent into the world without a purpose; he has labour of some kind to perform, some post to fill in the great workshop, and if he refuse to fill it, humanity, as well as himself, suffers for that refusal.