in common. Hence the doctrine of philosophical necessity, as some have taken the liberty to call the theory which binds the every act of every intelligent existence, in an inexorable chain of necessary causes and effects; a theory which blots out of existence the innate activity of mind, and substitutes the passiveness of matter in its place. We must attribute to the same cause, the early and continued occupation of the mind about external objects, the extreme difficulty which most men experience in forming any distinct conception of the phenomena of mind, independent of some illustration borrowed from the material world. There is much involved in this indistinctness of all conceptions relating to the spiritual world. May I not say that it has an incalculable influence on the morals of the world? With these dim, uncertain conceptions of every thing relating to the mind, as a distinct and independent existence, what practical hold can the conviction of its immortality acquire on human belief?

'Debased by sin and used to things of sense,

How shall man's spirit rise and travel hence,
Where lie the soul's pure regions?'

Has it not faculties to converse with the spiritual and the immortalto break the bonds which tie it down to earth? Shall the soul be the fettered slave of the material forms on which it stamps the proofs of its creating and disposing power? That which comprehends the laws, and controls the phenomena of passive matter, has the better claim to be considered a distinct and independent existence. It is worthier to be studied. It is the primary being; matter the secondary and subordinate. I believe there is much truth in Mr. Allison's theory of taste, which regards material forms as beautiful only as they are significant of agreeable qualities of mind. Matter, in all its arrangements, discourses eloquently of mind; and this is its highest function. To the mind debased by constant occupation about the objects of sense, material forms themselves lose their high significance. He alone who feels within himself the workings of an immortal spirit, can sympathise with, and in some measure comprehend, the kindred intelligence and love that speak out from the visible world.

If the mental phenomena were made an object of early attention, I see no reason to doubt that they would soon become as distinct objects of conception as any external thing. Their distinctive character, their entire remoteness from all similarity to any other phenomena, would be so obvious as to remove all danger of confounding them with any thing external. And I see no reason to doubt that if the mind were distinctly, habitually, regarded as the subject of a class of phenomena essentially different from any object of sense, we should as firmly believe in its continued existence, and the uniformity of the laws which make the reward and punishment of its acts a part of itself, as we believe in the continuance of the laws of nature in general.

Another beneficial effect of the general study of mental philosophy, would be a better application of the principles of inductive evidence in the affairs of life. When Bacon explained the true principles of philosophical inquiry, he did but make known the natural progress of the understanding in the acquisition of knowledge. He showed clearly that the observation and comparison of facts is our only means of gaining a knowledge of nature. How incalculably have mankind bene

fitted by the application of this truth in our physical inquiries! But this truth is but a fact in mental philosophy — it is a law of the human mind. It is observed in our physical inquiries; and to this we owe all the progress which has been made in the physical sciences. But there are inquiries and reasonings of a not less important character, in which the truth is only to be reached by following the same principles of evidence. I speak of the formation of opinions touching the characters. of men, and the measures and acts of men in official stations. Here is a department of inquiry of peculiar interest in a republican state, in which the laws of reason, the true rules of evidence, are very indifferently regarded. The principles of the inductive philosophy are not well obeyed in this department of inquiry, where the welfare and the peace of mankind require that they should be most carefully observed. Our public addresses and periodical essays, published ostensibly to convince and persuade, too frequently degenerate into common railing, or unmeaning panegyric. Sweeping conclusions, that disdain the support of specific facts, are quite as common, perhaps, among our men of conventions and newspapers, as they ever were among the alchemists. Yet it would be difficult to prove that sound conclusions are of less moment in the inquiries relating to the behavior of men, than in the inquiries into the nature and composition of salts and metals. I cannot doubt that a more general cultivation of mental philosophy would, in some degree, restrain the extravagances which set all its principles at defiance.

The practical applications of intellectual philosophy have one marked difference from those of the physical sciences. The latter, though cultivated by a very few persons, diffuse their benefits among all. All participate in the advantages of improved machinery, and other applications of physical knowledge. But the applications of intellectual science are mostly personal. Each individual must himself possess the principles, in order to reap the chief benefits of their application. There is, however, one practical use of mental science which sheds its richest blessings on those who are little able to comprehend its principles. I mean the art of education. This art has certainly received great improvements within a few years past. It has been more nearly adapted to the natural progress of the intellect. But how much more is to be done here!

These speculations have been continued too far, to allow of more than a hasty glance at the connection between the sciences of mind and morals. The latter is the sequel to the former. The knowledge of our intellectual and moral faculties is the foundation of natural theology, and of all religion. It is likewise the foundation of the doctrine of the essential equality of man. Does not man now begin to feel that his fellow man has claims upon his sympathy and his efforts, that former ages never thought of? And to what is this owing? Chiefly, I apprehend, to the better perception of the capabilities of every human mind. And here I conclude in the words of one of whose great talents our country is justly proud who, better than any living writer, has illustrated the utility of intellectual science, and its connection with the best hopes of man.

I esteem it no small benefit of the philosophy of mind, that it teaches us that the elements of the greatest thoughts of the man of genius exist in his humbler brethren; and that the faculties which the scientific

exert in the profoundest discoveries, are precisely the same with those which common men employ in the daily labors of life.

The true view of great men is, that they are only examples and manifestations of our common nature, showing what belongs to all souls, though unfolded yet in only a few. The light which shines from them is after all but a faint revelation of the power which is treasured up in every human being. They are not prodigies, not miracles, but natural developments of the human soul.'

Detroit, (M. T.,) April, 1836.

G. C.

THE HOPES OF LIFE.

-AY-from helpless childhood

To youth's fresh morning, manhood's summer years,
And tottering, weak old age, Hope is our stay,
Our life of life: in infancy our toy;

In youth, the glass through which we see all things
In colors fairer than reality;

In our full prime, as noontide sunshine to us;
And in our last days, the strong staff on which
We lean, and look toward Heaven.'

HOPE of my Childhood! - what wert thou?
That I might roam on the mountain's brow;
That when I awoke to the morning's light,
The day might be serene and bright;
That I might be first to find out where
The violet scented the soft spring air;
That I might track the laden bee

Liverpool, (England.)

To his home in the trunk of the hollow tree;
Such were the simple things that first
The spirit of hope in my bosom nurst.

Hope of my Youth!-thy intensity
Was like the glow of the summer sky;
Thou wert a dream of loveliness,
Fixed in my bosom's inmost recess;
That I might be gazed on tenderly,
By the eyes that were as heaven to me;
That the heart I loved might pour again
Its love on mine like the summer rain;

That that spirit might melt in Affection's power -
Such were the hopes of my youth's warm hour.

Hope of my Summer! - wild and vain
Wert thou, albeit my fevered brain
Cherished thee with that mad desire,
Whose wild flames are like a lava fire,

That my name might blend with many a name
That is uttered loud by the voice of fame :

Oh, how I tried my heart to deceive!

Even as when a sweet dream doth leave,
We try, and long, and long in vain,
To sleep, and dream it o'er again.

Hope of my Age! - and what art thou?

Oh not on fading things below

Is thy foundation-thou art no dream,

To melt away like the summer beam.

I have known some hopes that looked most bright,

Perish like dreams in Truth's morning light:

I have known others, as blossoms fair,

Wither like them in the blast of Care;
But thou! thou canst not fade, nor be riven,

For thy spring is Truth-thy source is Heaven!

M. A. B.

A CHAPTER FROM REAL LIFE.*

'AND hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng;
And gentle wishes long subdued-
Subdued and cherished long.'

COLERIDGE.

A HANDSOME-LOOKING man, upon whose brow middle-age had scarcely yet set its signet, was the next in routine. To our demand of a tale from him, he pleaded none of those excuses, of which, from other lips, we had had but too many. He promptly admitted the justice of the claim, lamented his own incompetency as a raconteur, and promised to do his best to repay the pleasure which he said our various narratives had communicated to him.

He was, as I have said, a fine-looking man. There was an ingenuousness in his aspect, which had an extremely winning effect; and this, added to his air distingué, must in its day have done great havoc among female hearts, and doubtless would have been equally successful at this time; but every one could see that his attentions were reserved for the lady who sat by his side, and who seemed to be on especial good terms with him.

In the early part of the day, we had noticed what seemed exceedingly like a bit of flirtation between them—that interchange of looks which constitutes the freemasonry of the heart-those varying tones which in their modulations told to each other far more than was meant for the common earwreathed smiles,' which sat well upon the pale, manly cheek of the gentleman, and the rose-tinted countenance of the dameall, in fact, that would have been of rather a suspicious character, but for the knowledge gained from his own lips, within ten minutes after their arrival, that the lady was his wife!

She was as beautiful a person, in form and feature, as it was ever my lot to look upon. Perhaps she was not quite young enough for a heroine, for she might have seen thirty-five summers; but she might well have passed for at least ten years younger. I am utterly at a loss for words to describe the character of her beauty. Nay, it was not beauty: it was something more exquisite still. The features were fine in their ensemble, but taken separately they were not what you would call beautiful. Still, there was something in her piquant air - her espiègle glance her lovely alternation of clear white and red-her lofty brow, polished and white as alabaster - her earnest look, in which there was as much soul as I have ever seen illuminate any counteher dark and glossy hair, tasteful yet simple in its tournurethat, taken altogether, formed what I would deem far more lovely than that mere statue-like loveliness at which

nance

It was evident that her help-mate considered her the beau-ideal of beauty and of goodness. So attentive so very attentive was he to her,

* THE Curious reader of this sketch, (which the writer, a gentleman of literary repute in England, informs us is what it purports to be, a tale but no fiction, heard from the lips of the narrator himself,) may doubtless find a clue to the personages introduced, by consulting some authentic life of the renowned 'representative of Shakspeare's heroes.' EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.

that we thought at first they must have been newly-married; but, on observation, we perceived that his was a more temperate and calm attention than is paid by the bridegroom to the bride, and the manner in which the lady took all his little endearments--the farthest possible from any thing like the mawkish display by which the newly-wedded oftentimes make themselves ridiculous and disagreeable-clearly showed that she had been long accustomed to them.

In a word, it was the best specimen I have ever seen of marriage as it should be. The husband was kind, affectionate and gentle- the lady was the same. It was an interchange of the most delightful courtesy imaginable—that courtesy which springs from the heart, and is best nourished in the heart. The whole company was interested in these two strangers. All felt delighted when, the lady having left the room, the gentleman kept his promise, and told his story thus.

My name is Tressilian: my family came from Cornwall, where, long before the Conquest, they had extensive estates. My grandfather, for his active services as a volunteer, when 'the isle was frightened from its propriety' by the rebellion of 1715, was made a baronet by George the First. As the family estates were quite adequate to any additional expense which this new dignity might confer, my ancestor did not hesitate to accept the honor.

My father was a younger son, and, like most younger sons, early made a foolish marriage, which arrayed the rest of his family against him. He was young, spirited, and ardent, so he solaced himself with the happiness of a wedded life; and I verily believe that he with his hundreds was happier far than his elder brother, with the title and the rich estates.

'My uncle, the baronet, was a haughty man, and his pride was hurt at the thought that his brother was not quite as wealthy as he might have been had he married an heiress. He did not better his condition for him, because he was as selfish as he was proud, but offered him a situation in Ireland—one of those government trifles by which obsequious votes in the House of Commons were rewarded; and my uncle had a leading interest' in three boroughs. My father saw that the offer was a good one: he accepted it, and by doing so, bettered his own finances, and by removing himself from the vicinage of his proud brother, did another service, without intending it.

'I was an only child. My father's appointment was in the Customs at Cork, and I was born in that beautiful city.' It would take up a long time, to very little purpose, to narrate how I rose from infancy to childhood, from childhood to manhood. While I was yet a child, my mother died, and I had just reached my twentieth year, when it pleased Providence that my father should follow her.

His illness was brief. An hour before his death he told me, what indeed I had long expected, that he had far outlived his income. It appeared, that as only two brothers, with their families, stood between him and the baronetcy and estates, he had calculated on the succession sometime or other! In this foolish expectation, he had latterly lived, rather according to his hopes than his means. The result was, that after paying all his debts, I found myself the master of a solitary £50. It was the alpha and omega of my worldly possessions at the time.