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Her face was veil'd; yet to my fancied sight,
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined
So clear, as in no face with more delight.

But, O! as to embrace me she inclined,

I waked; she fled; and day brought back my night." His third wife, Elizabeth Minshull, survived him some years. The pair seem to have lived happily together; the young wife devoted herself to his necessities-for he was now blind-"in darkness, and with dangers compassed round, and solitude." To this excellent woman the world owes a deep debt of gratitude and honour, which it has yet been slow to render.

Who would have suspected this from the author of "Lefevre" and "The Sentimental Journey?" Farquhar, the play-writer, married early in life, a lady who deceived him by pretending to be possessed of a fortune, and he sunk, a victim to disappointment and over-exertion, in his thirtieth year, leaving behind him "two helpless girls;" his widow died in circumstances of the utmost indigence.

These are rather unhappy instances of the wives_of great men; but there are others of a happier kind. Indeed, there is reason to believe, that we hear but little of the happy unions: it is the brawling, rocky brook that is the most noisy: the slow, deep waters are dumb. Every one will remember the glorious wife of the patriot, Lord William Russell, whose conduct by the side of her patriot husband, on his trial, stands out as one of the most beau tiful pictures in all history. How devotedly her husband loved her need not be said: when he had taken his final farewell of her, all he could say was-"The bitterness of death is now past!" She lived for many years after the execution of her husband, and a delicious collection of her letters has since been published.

Dr. Richard Hooker, the distinguished divine, was very unfortunate in his wife. He was betrayed into marrying her by his extraordinary simplicity and ignorance of the world. The circumstances connected with the marriage were these:Having been appointed to preach at St. Paul's Cross, he went up to London from Oxford, and proceeded to the house set apart for the reception of the preachers. He was very wet and weary on his arrival, and experienced much kindness from the housekeeper. She persuaded him that he was a man of very tender Bunyan speaks with the greatest tenderness of his wife, constitution, and urged that he ought, above all things, who helped to lead him into the paths of peace. He to have a wife, to nurse and take care of him. She pro-says-"My mercy was to light upon a wife, whose father fessed to be able to furnish him with such, if he thought fit to marry. Hooker authorized her to.select a wife for him, and the artful woman presented her own daughter"a silly, clownish woman, and withal a mere Xantippe." Hooker, who had promised to marry whomsoever she should select, thought himself bound to marry her, and he did so. They led a most uncomfortable life, but he resigned himself as he best could, lamenting that saints have usually a double share in the miseries of this life." When Cranmer and Sandys went to see him at his rectory in Buckinghamshire, they found him reading Horace and tending sheep, in the absence of the servant. When they were conversing with him in the house, his wife would break in upon them, and call him away to rock the cradle and perform other menial offices. The guests were glad to get away. This unfortunate wife was long a thorn in his side.

The famous (at one time infamous) Earl of Rochester appears in a very favourable light in his letters to his wife: they are remarkably tender, affectionate, and gentle. In one of them, he says-"'Tis not an easy thing to be entirely happy; but to be kind is very easy, and that is the greatest measure of happiness. I say not this to put you in mind of being kind to me-you have practised that so long, that I have a joyful confidence you will never forget it but to show that I myself have a sense of what the method of my life seemed so utterly to contradict."

The poet, Dryden, married a noble lady, Elizabeth Howard, daughter of the Earl of Berkshire. The match added little to his wealth, and still less to his happiness. It was an altogether unhappy union. On one occasion, his wife wished to be a book, that she might enjoy more of his company. Dryden's reply was, "Be an almanac, then, my dear, that I may change you once a year." In his writings afterwards, he constantly inveighed against matrimony.

and mother were counted godly: this woman and I, though we came together as poor as poor might be (not having so much household stuff as a dish or a spoon betwixt us both); yet this she had for her part, The Plain Man's pathway to Heaven,' and 'The Practice of Piety,' which her father had left her when he died." And the perusal of these books, together with his good wife's kindly influence, at last implanted in him strong desires to reform his vicious life, in which he eventually succeeded.

Parnell and Steele were both made happy in their wives. The former married a young lady of rare beauty and merit, Miss Anne Minchen, but she lived only a few years, and his grief at his loss so preyed on his mind, that he never after recovered his wonted spirits and health. Steele's letters to his wife, both before and after his marriage, are imbued with the most tender feeling, and exhibit his affection for her in the most beautiful light. Young, the poet, like Dryden and Addison, married into a noble house, espousing the daughter of the Earl of Lichfield; but he was happier than they. It was out of the melancholy produced by her death that his famous "Night Thoughts" took their rise.

When Samuel Johnson married Mrs. Porter, her age was double his own; yet the union proved a happy one on both sides. It was not a love-match, of course, but it was one of inclination and of reciprocal esteem. Johnson was anything but graceful or attractive in his person, yet he possessed many admirable qualities. Mrs. Porter was rather ungainly; but, then, Johnson was very shortsighted, and could not detect personal faults. In his eyes, she was perfectly beautiful; and, in an affectionate epitaph which he devoted to her, at her death, he depicted her in glowing colours, without a fault. Indeed, his writings contain many proofs of the lively and sincere affection which he entertained for her.

While such have been the wives of a few of the great men of past times, it must be stated that, probably, the greatest of them all led a single life. The greatest of the philosophers were bachelors, such as Bacon, Newton, Gassendi, Galileo, Descartes, Bayle, Locke, Leibnitz, Hume, Gibbon; and many poets also, as Pope, Goldsmith, Thomson, and others. Bacon says that wife and children are "impediments to great enterprises;" and that

Addison also "married discord in a noble wife." He was tutor to the young Earl of Warwick, and aspired to the hand of the Dowager Countess. She married him, and treated him like a lacquey. She never saw in him more than her son's tutor. Swift (his contemporary) cruelly flirted with two admirable women; he heartlessly killed one of them, and secretly married the other, but never publicly recognised her: she, too, shortly after" certainly the best works, and of greatest merit for the


Sterne, the sentimentalist, treated his wife with such severity, that she abandoned him, and took retreat in a convent with her daughter: she never saw him after.

public, have proceeded from the unmarried, or childless men, which, both in affection and reason, have married and endowed the public." But these were the words of a bachelor, and, perhaps, not strictly correct. The great

men of more recent times have generally been married; and, at another time, we shall probably complete this paper by a brief account of the more distinguished of their wives.


"by-thearticle they meet with); she then continued-" by, James, have you seen after that house of Burton's? you know it is the only one at all likely to suit us; and, what is to become of us in this little, poking place, as our family increases, I don't know; do you Barbara?


Miss Tigwell has a habit of sniffing, particularly when she is very decided, which is nearly always, for she is a woman of firm mind, and prides herself thereon; she sniffed nowv- audibly-and replied,

"No, I'm sure I don't, nor anyone else; we must some of us take lodgings next door, I suppose, or put up a tent in the back-yard.”

"But, James," resumed Mrs. S., " you have not answered me, did you go about the house?"

Mr. Scrivenger removed his cigar, and replied, with a slightly nervous air:-"Why, n-no, m-my dear, I really had not time; a fellow came in on business, and prevented

"When will you go, then?"

I AM an elderly spider, and in spinning the thread of my life have gained a good deal of experience in the ways of the world, and consider myself rather a knowing old fellow. One piece of wisdom I have learned is to spread my web in a house the heads of which are blessed with a numerous offspring, and keep but few servants; a plan I should decidedly recommend to all my young friends. They need be under no apprehensions from the prover-me just as I was going out." bial cruelty of children, who have, I can assure them, a perfect horror of a spider, and whose favourite victims are well known to be the domestic cat, and our food the flies; of which last they waste a shameful quantity. I don't mean to say we have no disagreeables to ensure we have wanted it long enough, and I did think, counter in the sort of establishment I have named, but after all that has been said, you would have set about it then I should like to know who in the world is without to-day.' troubles? Besides I think you will agree with me when I suggest the great counterbalancing advantage we secure in choosing, what I consider, so desirable a household to reside in.

The "dear children" absorb the entire attention both of mamma and maids, who are alike kept going to look after their comforts, while our webs are allowed to remain undisturbed by duster or brush, and we may securely calculate on at least six months' peace in some retired nook, behind a wardrobe, at the top of a bed, or in the snuggest corner of the preserve closet, for these remote localities are only subject to periodical outbreaks of cleanliness; due notice of which is sure to reach us, and give us time to convey a sufficiency of food to a neighbouring hole, there to conceal ourselves and it until the excitement be over.

The hole to which I am in the habit of retiring is a sort of miniature tunnel communicating with the next house; thus, at the same time, providing me a safe retreat, and enabling me to observe the doings of my neighbours, an occupation which has lately afforded me much amusement. Mrs. Jones next door lets lodgings, which are, for some reason, always vacant, with the exception of the second floor. This portion of the house has long been tenanted by a deaf gentleman somewhat of an invalid.

Our family consists of Mr. and Mrs. Scrivenger (Scrivenger is an accountant, and has his office below stairs), their ten pledges, and a maiden aunt, Miss Barbara Tigwell, secretly denominated by the pledges "vinaigrette." This title is in honour of Miss Tigwell's wonderful capacity in the art of scolding and saying sharp things. The domestic duties of this establishment are performed by two pairs of very dirty hands, belonging to two very untidy-looking maid servants, who have occasional help when matters become hopelessly involved. A short time back, the children having retired for the night, Scrivenger was seated, newspaper in hand, smoking a quiet cigar, Miss Tigwell concocting a very remarkable head-dress for herself, of black lace and yellow ribbons, while Mrs. Scrivenger was engaged in drawing up and crimping no end of little caps, destined to cover the little bald head of No. 10, when he or she should put it into this miserable world. The breaking of a string in one of the aforesaid caps caused at the same time a breaking of silence; Mrs. Scrivenger begged Barbara to lend her a bodkin, complaining that "those children had put hers down a chink in the wainscoting," (to which place they are, to my knowledge, in the habit of consigning any stray

"Oh, to-morrow, my dear; it will be time enough when we really want it, you know."


'Yes, but in the mean time it may be gone; I am

"Did you?" remarked Miss Tigwell, giving a sharp wrench to a rebellious bow. "I wonder, by this time,| you have not found out he never sets about a thing until the last moment: if ever I marry, I will, at least, choose a man with promptness and decision of character."

"My dear Barbara," said Scrivenger, smiling, "I am sure that is useless, you have quite enough for any two people;" and he again resigned himself to his former occupation.

The unexpected arrival of the little stranger that very night diverted the attention of all parties, and I heard no more of a removal, of which I was very glad, as I could by no means calculate upon undisturbed possession of my haunts should fresh occupants take up their quarters in my present place of abode.

One night, about six weeks after the former conversation, the same party was arranged, something as before, only that now Mrs. Scrivenger held on her knee a little effigy, crowned with one of those very caps she had been previously in the act of preparing. The effigy was treating the company to a little vocal music, as it lay with its face downwards on the maternal knee, while Mrs. S. was patting its back in the most approved manner.

"I am fairly worn out to day," she exclaimed, "the noise of those children perfectly distracts me." "It would distract any one," put in Miss Tigwell, by way of parenthesis.

"I do wish we had a regular nursery," continued Mrs. S., "have you learned anything about that house yet, James?"

"Of course he has not," said Miss T., "you don't expect it, do you? but I have though, it has been let these six weeks; it was taken the very day after he had not time to see about it."

"Oh, James, how very provoking," said his wife, almost ready to cry with vexation, "I really will do things myself for the future, and not trust to you."

"You will find your trust misplaced if you do," said Miss T.; "you should have married a man like Mr. Brown, next loor, with promptness and decision of character."

As soon as poor Scrivenger had the opportunity of speaking, he said he was very sorry, but he dared say they would do very well, and he promised to be more vigilant with the next house that was to let.

"And until then, James, what do you suppose we shall do?"

Well, my dear," returned Mr. Scrivenger, "I have had the promptness, for once, to provide for that, and

actually made arrangements to-day with our landlord, to have a room from next door added to this."

"Well, that is better than nothing, only do let us have it done at once. Barbara, be so kind as to reach me the "Dalby," baby is so cross."

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"Babies are always cross," said Miss T., sniffing, as she handed the required "potion," or potation,' I forget which she called it. The next day saw masons and joiners at work with great vigour, and I trembled for my favourite tunnel, they came so very near it. The newly-acquired room extended exactly over those next door, occupied by the deaf gentleman as bed-room and sitting-room; and I now paid him a visit to get out of the way, and also to hear one of his soliloquies, with which he frequently amused me. He had acquired a habit of talking to himself, partly for lack of anyone else to talk to-partly that not hearing himself speak he was unconscious that others could. "Well," murmured he, as a quantity of bricks rolled on the floor above with a noise like an avalanche, "if I didn't think I heard something. I've thought so this morning before, only its impossible; there again-it's very odd! It's a very fine day," he continued, going to the window, "and there is Mrs. Morton sitting sewing at her window as usual; she's an uncommonly neat little lady, and looks quite young since she put off that frightful widow's cap. Morton must have been dead these three years, now. Good morning, ma'am (bowing across the way); and good morning, Miss Tigwell (bowing again); you're out early this morning. How thin that woman gets! she seems to draw out like wire-the thinner she grows the longer she looks; how the bones must wear out her clothes! Oh, here's my breakfast;" and, dropping his private conversation, he turned his attention to coffee and rolls. The nursery was completed, the children installed, and I peeped in one day to see how they got on. I was amazed to find that Tom who has a taste for drawing, had already covered the walls with sketches of castles taken by assault, little boys upsetting old women's applestalls; and a mad bull in the act of tossing a very lean lady uncommonly like Miss Tigwell in personal appearance, while exactly nine children of various dimensions, were looking on in divers attitudes of triumph or derision.

Preparations were now making for a musical performance headed by Jim the musical genius, who was giving directions, and every toy capable of emitting a sound was put in requisition. "I'll be Jullien," he shouted, "Bill shall be Koenig; here Bill take this horn, little Jack can beat the drums, Tom can have the poker and tongs, Mary can have the tambourine; here's a box full of marbles for you, Nelly; there's a whistle for little Harry, he can blow that and make his dog bark too; the Pan pipes will just suit you, Sally, you have such a wide mouth; and Dick, what must Dick play?" he turned the wheels of a little cart, they uttered a fearful shriek, "here, Dick, drag this about the room, tie the string to your button, and then you can play the Jew's-harp as well. I'll lead on the fiddle; are all ready? Now, for the Row Polka,"" and they all struck up. Mercy, what a sound! I rushed through to next door. "Eh! what!" exclaimed Mr. Brown, "I must be getting my hearing again. This is the fifth or sixth day, I have distinctly heard something. I thought no one could make me hear but Mrs. Jones. Bless me! what can that be?" as a sound like a regiment of artillery at full gallop passed over the floor above. "Well, really, there's no mistake about that, any one might hear that; what can be going on? Mrs. Jones! Mrs. Jones! I say, come here, do you hear that?"

"Hear it," screamed Mrs. Jones, his landlady, answering his summons, "who can help it? I have sometimes been thankful I was not deaf, like our poor Mr. Brown, sir-you sir-but since them Scrivengerses got

that room, I've often said what a blessing it is that poor Mr. Brown has not his hearing. I'm sure I should not object to change with him. I said them very words, sir, to my daughter Rachel, this very morning. Poor Mr. Brown, I said, sir- -" and being exhausted with her effort she stopped; but if Mr. Brown had been a person of ordinary hearing, it is probable that she would have given to it and her own tongue further exercise.

The thunder continuing, I ran back to discover the cause, and found they were having a stag hunt, and Master Tom was following the hounds at a furious pace on a rocking-horse. There was a sudden lull, and glancing towards the door, I beheld Miss Tigwell evidently ruffled and excited. "Do you think that becoming conduct, children? do you suppose this noise can be borne, you little troublesome monkeys, do you? Come down off that rocking-horse, sir," she exclaimed. "It is enough even to make Mr. Brown hear, and wish himself deafer still. Get to your lessons every one of you, I am coming in ten minutes to hear them."

Tom slipped over his steed's tail, from behind which he made a horrid face as she retired, and when she was out of hearing said, "I'll tell you what it is, I've thought so long enough. Vinaigrette is setting that old black cap with the yellow ribbons at Mr. Brown, below here; " and he performed a caper, coming down with considerable force in a pair of remarkably strong boots, studded with nails, which example was immediately followed by the rest of the party, both of them being fortified against wet feet in a similar manner. I felt sure Mr. Brown would be at that very moment exclaiming, "Bless me, there's that noise again."

For several weeks, horse-races, concerts, stag-hunts, hornpipes, to say nothing of a slide that had been established on the smoothest board of the nursery-floor, and the perpetual rolling of marbles were amongst the sounds constantly going on over the devoted head of poor Mr. Brown.

At the end of this time, I one morning found him in a profound reverie, which I felt assured would soon end in a soliloquy. I had not long to wait.

"Deaf!" said he, "no I am not so deaf as I was, that's certain; morning after morning am I aroused from comfortable repose by a noise that would waken the seven sleepers. I must be regaining my hearing, and I can't stand this any longer, my health wont bear it; Miss Tigwell says she fears the children much disturb me; I should think they do; it does not admit of a doubt-but I am resolved." He took up his hat, brushed it carefully and, approaching the window, continued-" Ah, there she is at work as usual, how nice she looks, so neat and quiet; well, I did think I should have spent my life in these lodgings, and died an old bachelor, but now that my hearing is so improved, why I will go over and see what that charming little widow will say to me;" he went to the glass, arranged his hair and whiskers, a thing I had never seen him do before, and left the room with quite a juvenile air.

From this day it was wonderful how much time Mr. Brown spent over the way. I saw very little of him. The result of these visits soon became apparent; one fine morning my friend dressed himself with unusual care, went out, and never returned to his old abode. On that morning Mrs. Scrivenger was seated at the nursery fire as usual, with the baby on her knee, who was endeavouring to appease an insatiable appetite (which has tormented him ever since his birth) by imbibing a white fluid from an odd-shaped long bottle; it appeared to me to be something strong, for at every few minutes he choked himself, and was only brought round by that sovereign remedy for baby ailments-a succession of blows on the back, administered by his alarmed mamma. Miss Tigwell was seated near the window, evidently attracted there by something going on in the street. I

must here remark upon a circumstance that I have repeatedly noticed, namely-it is only necessary for a person to utter ever so slight an exclamation on ever so trifling an occurrence, in the presence of children, instantly to collect a crowd, jostling each other, mobbing the unfortunate exclaimer, and all crying, "What is it?" "Do let me see," when in nine cases out of ten there is nothing to be seen.

rather than intellectual perception, rests upon old traditions, ancient education, and long acceptance, and use of certain modes and channels of thought; but still there it is firmly fixed in our minds, and would probably be quite as difficult to dispel as any of the conclusions of accurate knowledge.

This feeling is, however, as yet so dreamy and shadowy, that it would only excite ridicule to oppose it to any of the investigations of science, or to a recognised and extensively-held public opinion; and, therefore, as we do not care to enter upon the task of tilting with shadows against substantialities, we are even content-as, indeed, we must be content-to let "know thyself" stand as the watchword of the intellectual world.

An "Oh! there they come," from Miss Tigwell, produced the above-named effect with more reason than usual, and caused a simultaneous rush of all the little Scrivengers, headed by master Tom, to the side of their aunt. "Look, Jem, there they come; that's the bride, that is; and my! what a big white bow old Brown has in his button-hole; aint it a jolly thing to get married, and Still, these shadows, which we shrink, perhaps because drive about in a carriage with white horses and a we love them, from hurling into a rash and unprepared postilion?" And master Tom rose on imaginary stirrups conflict against realities, may be as real in their own as he sat astride on the back of a chair. "There, they're existence as the materialities by which we are suroff now; Rachel Jones told me they were going to Lon-rounded-just as the invisible beings with whom mystics don to see the Great Exhibition, and 'Punch,' that writes and dreamers people all space may be in active existthat funny book, and all the foreigners that are coming." ence, although they are imperceptible to our grosser "Hold your tongue, Tom," said Miss Tigwell, "what waking senses, and only felt in the feverish nervous business have you to talk to Rachel Jones. Well," she excitement of our day dreams and night visions, from continued, addressing Mrs. Scrivenger and the baby, whence all the efforts of the will and the understanding Mrs. Brown will have to exert her lungs, I should'nt are insufficient to expel them. Indeed, if we were, in like to be in her place." obedience to the quoted proverb, to look more closely into ourselves, we should find that these same dim and intellectually undefined sensations are constantly exercising a more subtle and irresistible power over us than what we call our real knowledge; and that what we feel to be true or right or beautiful becomes more indissolubly connected in our souls with the true, the good, and the beautiful, than what we think we know to be associated with those qualities.

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Tom made an awful face at the other children who swallowed their pinafores and their mirth together, for Miss Tigwell had her eye upon them.

"It seems," she broke out again, "that widow Morton did not sit day after day at that window only because her room was not light enough for the piece of work she was about; a pretty piece of work indeed, catching that weak old genthman, Mr. Brown, whom I had always given credit for possessing decision of character, it shows how one may be mistaken."

In fact, amid all our talk about knowing, there are influences which in their unintellectuality may be almost called instinets-likings for which we can assign no possible reason; datas for which there appears to be no foundation; loves built up without a recognised basis; sympathies touching chords, of whose existence we were before unaware, and whose least tones we but half hear, and do not half comprehend; and attractions binding us in chains, of which the links seem to be woven of some other materials than causes and effects which are constantly busy within the hearts of the gravest and sternest and most resolutely thoughtful among us, moulding us and wielding us at their pleasure, not so much in defi

I must confess that since this wedding took place, I have had a great longing to emigrate "over the way" too; only I know that neat little Mrs. Brown would never tolerate me for a moment. I do not think there is the slightest danger of my being meddled with in my present quarters, for I feel convinced it is not possible for Scrivenger so to alter his character as to do anything at once; putting off has become a fixed principle with him, and if there were half-a-dozen houses to be had tomorrow he would let them all slip through his fingers, so I may set my mind at ease that the projected move will never be accomplished during my lifetime. Per-ance of will as without that faculty being ever consulted haps it might be pleasanter at my age to be in a quieter or called into action. Who is there that does not-we family, but, as I before observed, one cannot have every- were going to write "know" this, but we had rather thing we like in this world. I am on the whole very say "feel" it, without that clear perception and comcontent, and I feel sure that a state of contentment is a prehension which belong to knowledge, but with all the blessed state, either for spiders or mortals under any cir-force of an irresistibly determining instinct.



UNCONSCIOUS ATTRACTIVENESS. "Know thyself" is a proverb at once so ancient and 80 sanctified by authority, and by universal acceptance, that we are almost afraid to meddle with it. It seems something like setting up in opposition to the whole world of intellect to dispute the applicability of the adage under all circumstances. This is more particularly the case in the present "knowing" age, which, of all stages in the world's history, prides itself-as, indeed, it has some right to do-upon its superior and growing knowledge, and seems to have blazoned those two significant and incitive syllables upon its banners.

Yet there is some strange, and, in some respect, indefinable sensation within us that this command is not all good-that the knowledge of ourselves is a mixed one of good and evil, and some faint perception, too, that the first step into such knowledge was the first step into wrong. It may be, indeed, that this sensation or feeling,

What influence these feelings may have upon our intellectual perceptions when we are better able to define them, we do not know; but at present we must regard them as not belonging to the region of knowledge, but appertaining to the sphere of faiths, affections, and impulses; as being influences rather than powers; and as affecting the ideal rather than the real.

"Know thyself" is excluded from this ideal sphere because it belongs to another dominion; and properly so, too; for if we were to attempt to analyze our affections and impulses, we should be led into a maze of confusion and uncertainty it would be difficult to illustrate; and worse than that we should impede the free action of our own nature, for to bind these subtle influences down by the chains of logic or the fetters of rule, or to confine them within the known boundaries of reason, would be to destroy them. By their very nature they are unconscious, and apart from the will; they are unthinking, self-forgetful, and instinctive; and in their defiance of comprehension they are beyond knowledge. Whether for good or for evil they flow through us rather than

from us, as has been said of the genius of Shakspere; their very essence is our unconsciousness of their mode of action, and, therefore, they are incompatible with knowledge, and the rightful property of doubt and mystery.


and your admiration of all these is a feeling with its whose upon source beyond the plummet of your consciousness, "fathoms deep" in that deepest sea of mind dark but yet bright surface float our dreams. And this is not the only relation of unconsciousness to Some may doubt this, others may say that it is metaphysical; and metaphysical is with them only another our feelings, while it hides their source from our knowname for the unintelligible; and others may call it Ger-ledge, and thus permits their inner action, it has its outman-identifying German, with dreaminess and mys- ward function also, for it strikes us that a great portion ticism; but let them reflect a few moments before they of our sympathy for any object rests upon the unconcondeion, and ask themselves upon what basis of know-sciousness of the object itself, of the possession of those ledge or science their own deepest and warmest feelings qualities which attract us toward it. rest; by what rules of logic their affections are governed; by what force of will their sympathies are regulated; and the truthful answer must be that these things have no necessary or practical connection-that something within, which we do not understand, but only feel, responds to the senses, and often gives to their evidence an interpretation in which preconceived knowledge has no share.

For example, you may be deeply versed in the science of optics, competent to discourse most learnedly upon the prismatic tints, able to tell us how the rays divide the colours between them, and to which belongs the principle of heat and to which the chemical force; but which ray is it to which your own eye is most pleasurably attracted? and when you have settled that you cannot tell us that there is any connection between your science and the sympathy which was before, and is beyond your science, and which would have led you, if you were ignorant, to gaze upon the purple or the red; and which sympathy your knowledge, even as it did not form it, cannot change or modify its action or comprehend its


Again, you are a florist, learned in stamens and pistils, and calyxes, you know the order and the genus, and the class of the flower in your hand. Can you tell on what your affection for this or that blossom rests? The glaring yellow is beautiful, so is the blushing red, the more retiring pink, the lordly purple, the wan and tintless white of the lily-the shapes, too, are as various as the hues, the bell of one species, the cup of another, the spread-out flattened leaves of the third, you love them all, but your love is not bounded by rule. They are all beautiful, but you do not measure their beauty by the understanding. How then, pray? You do not measure it at all. Its sense springs from an unconscious feeling over which you have no power, of which you are a subject. But stay, what is the blossom in your hand-a Yes! violet, a lowly violet, and you love that too? What better than those gorgeous blossoms of the tropics you cultivate with so much care and pains? Yes! still. Why? It is useless to ask the question, there is no lore reason knows which reaches so far as the answer; nothing about it, it is unreasonable, it is a sympathy. belonging to the heart not to the head, it is apart from knowledge, and "know thyself," be it reiterated never so often will teach you nothing more than that it is a feeling which is.

Yet again you are a lover of form, you have studied the rules of proportion, the laws upon which symmetry depends, you have measured the Hercules, the Apollo, the Venus of the Greeks. You have studied the adaptation of limb to limb, of feature to feature, and the fitness You have acquired knowledge, of contour of the whole. and know upon what the idea of the beauty of form rests, what it is that attracts you to these glorious shapes. Indeed! and yet you also admire the noble horse with his arched crest, and fine distended nostrils, the antlered stag bounding over the turf in all the beauty of motion, the giant tree raising up its head to heaven, and spreading abroad its waving arms over the earth. What rules of proportion include these, and a hundred more examples? What knowledge leads you on to admire them? Seriously, none, for feeling, unlike knowledge, has no rules,

In the case of the inanimate beauties of nature there is no means of supporting this idea, except by resorting to supposition, for they are devoid of what we call sense or volition; but probability and comparison seem to say that if the lilies perked and primmed, and dressed themselves by the mirror-like lake; or the drooping willows arranged their falling tresses of foliage by the reflection in the passing brook; or the rose blushed conscious of its beauty, or Flora's other darlings held up their pretty We love the artlessness of the heads and sought for admiration, our sympathy for them would be apt to vanish. child, its simple prattle, its open, unreserved candour, the way it opens to us its little heart, and lets us dive into the inner springs of its being, and see the deepest sources of its humanity. The child does all this in its unconsciousness, and attracts us towards it by the sympathy which that unconsciousness unconsciously produces But by-and-by the child grows into a man of in us. high capacity and cultivated mind, with a consciousness of his powers and deserts, and with his change the bonds of our sympathy loosen, and admiration takes its place. We admire him more and more, and treat him with greater respect, but consciousness upon both sides is awakened, and sympathy lessened. It is a remarkable corroboration of this that those great men who have retained in their manhood the unconscious simplicity, or as some would say the frivolity of childhood, have been precisely those who have won the affection, however little they may have had the respect of their contemporaries; and while we write this there springs up before us the vision of Oliver Goldsmith, in the plenitude of his intellectual power sitting in his childish, unworldly simplicity, before Johnson, while the awful massiveheaded lexicographer in all the consciousness of his mental power, read the poor author's manuscript; and while we give our respect to Johnson, our sympathies bind us lovingly to the imprudent author of the Vicar of Wakefield.

Take another example, which perhaps will come nearer to the hearts of many. We see a simple, beautiful country girl, in all the freshness of youth and loveliness. It may be true, as Charles Mackay sings, that"She may not be Without some touch of vanity."

And that-

"She twines red rose-buds in her hair,

And smiles to know herself so fair."

But her knowledge we feel is an unconscious one, and without asking whether she is beautiful or not, almost without thinking about it, we love her. By some accident of fortune, by some chance turn of the wheel of the glittering goddess, the lovely girl is plucked from her obscurity, and transplanted into the world of fashion. We meet her again the belle of the ball-room. The simply-parted hair is a mass of gorgeous curls, the plain knot has given place to the skilfully-plaited braid; a cluster of gems sparkle upon her brow, and satins rustle and glitter where the modest russet gown once spread its simple folds. Is she less beautiful? No, for Art has aided Nature and she is surrounded by the fitting adornments which set off loveliness, as the circlet of burnished gold sets off the gem it holds. Her beauty is more

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