occiput, on which depends the exercise of passion, corresponds with the teeth, and particularly the lips, so that the prominency of the posterior parts of the brain may generally be safely predicted by that part of the face. A similar coincidence subsists between the cerebellum and the jaws; the breadth of the former is said to correspond with the breadth of the face over the cheek-bones, while its length answers to that of the lower jaw, measured from the tip of the chin to the angle.

Such is a brief outline of the leading principles of this interesting science. I shall conclude by a resume of the principal points, which may serve as hints in the practical application of the subject. It will be remembered, then, that a large head with a small triangular forehead denotes absence of intellect. A gently-arched and prominent forehead indicates, on the contrary, great genius. Shakspeare's is a striking evidence of this. A forehead full of irregular protuberances is characteristic of an uneven and choleric temper. Deep perpendicular lines between the eyebrows generally bespeak strength of mind, but when counterbalanced by others in an opposite direction, the reverse. Small eyebrows generally betoken a phlegmatic temperament, and if stronglymarked and horizontal, vigour of character; but if very elevated, absence of intellect. Black eyes portend energy, while gray often mark a choleric disposition, and blue, mildness and vivacity. The Roman nose is especially characteristic of valour and strength, like the beak of the eagle: the possessors of this kind of nose seem in many instances to have exhibited in their characters the peculiar properties of this king of birds. Such was Cyrus, it is said: Artaxerxes, Mahomet, the Prince of Conde, Duke of Wellington, and General Jackson, all possessed the eagle or Roman nose.

Thus we see that the diversified and often conflicting passions and emotions of the human mind are in a pre-eminent manner susceptible of spontaneous expression, or that indicated by the features of the countenance; and so intimate is their correspondence and affinity, that speech, however honest, can hardly be said to be more faithful in its testimony. The practical uses of this science are two-fold; first, in aiding us in ferming a just estimate of character; and secondly, in the matter of education; for since it is its peculiar province to demonstrate the possession of constitutional power, as well as its defects, it is manifest that it may be rendered available, by directing us to a suitable care in the cultivation of faculties not adequately developed. Let no one therefore suffer himself to become exasperated with his ugly looks, but seek to acquire, by mental cultivation, beauties more ornate, conspicuous, and imperishable. Who would not award the meed of praise to such an one, rather than to him who, how lavish soever may be the blandishments of his outer man, yet discovers all the vapidness of an empty pate, being destitute of those great moral attributes which confer the true dignity of man? There is indeed a double merit due to virtue, when it is thus seen, by almost superhuman power, to gain the mastery over the tyranny of vice.

To conclude: I cannot but think that this science might prove beneficial to those who may be meditating a launch upon the untried sea of matrimony! These devotees may herein, I doubt not, obtain the clue to many disguised and subtle mysteries, which the infant god revengefully hides from his captives, lest he himself should be betrayed; for on these occasions, it must be admitted, we seem to possess a strange obliquity of vision; very acute, it may be, but very oblique notwithstanding.

THE GRAY FOREST EAGLE.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

WITH Storm-daring pinion and sun-gazing eyo,
The GRAY FOREST EAGLE is king of the sky:
Oh! little he loves the green valley of flowers,

Where sunshine and song cheer the bright summer hours,
For he hears in those haunts only music, and sees
Only rippling of waters, and waving of trees;
There the red-robin warbles, the honey-bee hums,
The timid quail whistles, the shy partridge drums;
And if those proud pinions perchance sweep along,
There's a shrouding of plumage, a hushing of song:
The sunlight falls stilly on leaf and on moss,
And there's nought but his shadow black gliding across;
But the dark gloomy gorge, where down plunges the foam
Of the fierce rock-lash'd torrent, he claims as his home;
There he blends his keen shriek with the roar of the flood,
And the many-voiced sounds of the blast-smitten wood;
From the crag-grasping fir-top, where morn hangs its wreath,
He views the mad waters white writhing beneath;
On a limb of that moss-bearded hemlock far down,
With bright azure mantle and gay mottled crown,
The kingfisher watches, while o'er him his foe,

The fierce hawk, sails circling, each moment more low:
Now poised are those pinions and pointed that beak,
His dread swoop is ready, when hark! with a shriek,
His eye-balls red blazing, high bristling his crest,
His snake-like neck arch'd, talons drawn to his breast,
With the rush of the wind-gust, the glancing of light,
The Gray Forest Eagle shoots downward his flight:
One blow of those talons, one plunge of that neck,
The strong hawk hangs lifeless, a blood-dropping wreck;
And as dives the free kingfisher, dart-like on high
With his prey soars the Eagle, and melts in the sky.

A fitful red glaring, a low rumbling jar,
Proclaim the storm-demon yet raging afar;

The black cloud strides upward, the lightning more red,
And the roll of the thunder more deep and more dread;
A thick pall of darkness is cast o'er the air,

And on bounds the blast with a howl from its lair:
The lightning darts zig-zag and fork'd through the gloom,
And the bolt launches o'er with crash, rattle, and boom:
The Gray Forest Eagle, where, where has he sped!
Does he shrink to his eyrie, and shiver with dread?
Does the glare blind his eye? Has the terrible blast,
On the wing of the sky-king a fear-fetter cast?
No, no, the brave Eagle! he thinks not of fright,
The wrath of the tempest but rouses delight;
To the flash of the lightning his eye casts a gleam,
To the shriek of the wild blast, he echoes his scream,
And with front like a warrior that speeds to the fray,
And a clapping of pinions, he's up and away:
Away, oh! away soars the fearless and free!
What recks he the sky's strife, its monarch is he;
The lightning darts round him, undaunted his sight,
The blast sweeps against him, unwaver'd his flight;
High upward, still upward he wheels, till his form
Is lost in the black scowling gloom of the storm.

The tempest sweeps o'er with its terrible train,
And the splendour of sunshine is glowing again,
Again smiles the soft tender blue of the sky,

Waked bird-voices warble, fann'd leaf-voices sigh;

On the green grass dance shadows, streams sparkle and run,
The breeze bears the odour its flower-kiss has won,
And full on the form of the demon in flight
The rainbow's magnificence gladdens the sight!
The Gray Forest Eagle, oh! where is he now,

While the sky wears the smile of its God on its brow?
There's a dark floating spot by yon cloud's pearly wreath,
With the speed of the arrow 't is shooting beneath;
Down, nearer and nearer it draws to the gaze,
Now over the rainbow, now blent with its blaze,
To a shape it expands, still it plunges through air,
A proud crest, a fierce eye, a broad wing are there;
"T is the Eagle, the Gray Forest Eagle, once more
He sweeps to his eyrie, his journey is o'er.

Time whirls round his circle, his years roll away,
But the Gray Forest Eagle minds little his sway;
The child spurns its buds for Youth's thorn-hidden bloom,
Seeks Manhood's bright phantoms, finds Age and a tomb;
But the Eagle's eye dims not, his wing is unbow'd,
Still drinks he the sunshine, still scales he the cloud!
The green tiny pine-shrub points up from the moss,
The wren's foot would cover it, tripping across;

The beach-nut down dropping, would crush it beneath,

But 'tis warm'd with heaven's sunshine and fann'd by its breath; The seasons fly past it, its head is on high,

Its thick branches challenge each mood of the sky;

On its rough bark the moss a green mantle creates,
And the deer from his antlers the velvet down grates:

Time withers its roots, it lifts sadly in air

A trunk dry and wasted, a top jagg'd and bare,

Till it rocks in the soft breeze, and crashes to earth,

Its brown fragments strewing the place of its birth.

The Eagle has seen it up-struggling to sight,

He has seen it defying the storm in its might,

Then prostrate, soil-blended, with plants sprouting o'er,
But the Gray Forest Eagle is still as of yore.
His flaming eye dims not, his wing is unbow'd,
Still drinks he the sunshine, still scales he the cloud!
He has seen from his eyrie the forest below

In bud and in leaf, robed with crimson and snow,
The thickets, deep wolf lairs, the high crag his throne;
And the shriek of the panther has answer'd his own.
He has seen the wild red man the lord of the shades,
And the smoke of his wigwams curl thick in the glades;
He has seen the proud forest melt breath-like away,
And the breast of the earth lying bare to the day;
He sees the green meadow-grass hiding the lair,
And his crag-throne spread naked to sun and to air;
And his shriek is now answer'd, while sweeping along,
By the low of the herd and the husbandman's song;
He has seen the wild red man off-swept by his foes,

And he sees dome and roof where those smokes once arose ;
But his flaming eye dims not, his wing is unbow'd,
Still drinks he the sunshine, still scales he the cloud!

An emblem of Freedom, stern, haughty, and high,
Is the Gray Forest Eagle, that King of the sky!
It scorns the bright scenes, the gay places of earth-
By the mountain and torrent it springs into birth;

There rock'd by the wild wind, baptised in the foam,
It is guarded and cherish'd, and there is its home!
When its shadow steals black o'er the empires of kings,
Deep terror, deep heart-shaking terror, it brings;
When wicked Oppression is armed for the weak,
Then rustles its pinion, then echoes its shriek;
Its

eye flames with vengeance, it sweeps on its way, And its talons are bathed in the blood of its prey.

Oh that Eagle of Freedom! when cloud upon cloud
Swathed the sky of my own native land with a shroud,
When lightnings gleam'd fiercely, and thunderbolts rung,
How proud to the tempest those pinions were flung!
Though the wild blast of battle swept fierce through the air
With darkness and dread, still the eagle was there;
Unquailing, still speeding, his swift flight was on,
Till the rainbow of Peace crown'd the victory won.

Oh that Eagle of Freedom!-age dims not his eye,
He has seen Earth's mortality spring, bloom, and die;
He has seen the strong nation rise, flourish, and fall.
He mocks at Time's changes, he triumphs o'er all:
He has seen our own land with wild forests o'erspread,
He sees it with sunshine and joy on its head;
And his presence will bless this his own chosen clime,
Till the Archangel's fiat is set upon Time.

LIFE-A DEATH.

BY ISAAC CLARKE PRAY.

WE tread a desert strange and vast,
In crowds to search for things divine,

Poor pilgrims toiling to the last,

Hoping to reach a sacred shrine.

In vain for purity on earth

We strive to pass the desert-sand

For purity of Heavenly birth,

Remains in Heaven by God's command.

If to be pure, we congregate

To search for heavenly gifts,

We find them not, till changed in state
The hand of Death the Future lifts.
For Heaven alone should man desire,
Nor think by pageantry and plans

To gain the true and holy fire

Which in the soul alone is man's.
We tread a desert. Little grains
Of dust and lightest particles

The vast abundantly contains,

And swift the blast their power swells;

But death can only prove us pure,

And may the truth come home to man,

Of things divine no crowd is sure

Till blasts inhume the caravan.

THE BLACK SEAL.

BY ANN S. STEPHENS.;

"And then I think of one, who in her youthful beauty, died,
The fair meek blossom, that grew up, and faded by my side;
In the cold, damp earth we laid her, when the spring put forth its leaf.
And we sighed, that one so beautiful, should have a lot so brief;
Yet, not unmeet it was, that one like that sweet friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish 'mid the flowers."

Ir came at last, the letter with the black seal. She was dead! How few words are necessary to convey this melancholy truth, and yet, oh God! how many sweet associations, how many regretful remembrances are crowded into those three little words! How mournfully they awaken the heart to a knowledge of its own strong affections! We can never truly feel how dear the living are, till their places are empty, and we call for them, to receive no answer. The dear silver cords, that connect families and friends, become familiar, from their very lightness, and we dream not how closely they are enwoven with our life, till we feel their links shivered and broken, amid the heartstrings they have held together.

It is terrible to feel, that a creature, whom you have loved and cherished as your own life, is sinking daily to an early grave, from which there is no rescue. To watch the fire of death kindle in a beloved eye, and to see the soft damask of a young cheek glow and brighten into a blush for heaven-to witness the chastened soul, gradually fling off its earthly attributes, and grow beautiful beneath the finger of death;—but more dreadful is it to know that these things are, and yet to see them not to feel the hopes wither, one by one at your heart, as each written messenger comes with its freight of sorrowful tidings. Oh, how the heart aches with the intensity of its affections-how it struggles against those bonds which hold it back from the loved and the suffering, how anxiously it traces the cold, relentless footsteps of the destroyer, mapped out on paper, by friends who tremble to awaken a distant echo to their own sorrowful apprehensions.

They laid the letter before me, and besought me to bear up under the affliction of a sister's death. To be calm, even though others had stood by her death-bed, and ministered to her wants; though parents, brothers, sisters, friends, all were by, to witness her young spirit, as it grew lowly and trembled from life into eternity, all save one, and that one myself, who had loved her so fervently. Her dying words of love-her last, sweet mournful request was written in that letter, and yet they asked me to read them and be calm. If to sit tearless with unsteady limbs, and a heart trembling beneath the weight of its own desolation be calmness, they had their desire. But the overstocked heart mocks at philosophy-the power of intellect may conceal suffering; but the rush of natural affection will make itself felt, or break the heart that would confine its free course. Hours went by, and then came a sweet gush of tears, and with it, a sad mournful dream of the lost. The night was very still, and a flood of gentle moonbeams came with a silvery and subdued radiance through the window. It was a strange fancy, but it seemed as if the smiles of the dead were woven in those soft rays, and that evermore, they would beam in brightness about my path. Who shall affirm that this was all a phantasy, or that