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in bolder forms and mellower tones, stood forth monastic a new horizon disclosed new prospects, and thoughts of tower and castled steep, the solemn ruin, the gay villa, home filled his bosom with unutterable things. and the mouldering arch!

Reader! with whatever sentiments thou mayst have Could aught surpass the sublimities of such a scene?- regarded the condition of the traveller, remember that Yes. Its moral interest, as associated with the thoughts such, at this moment, is thine own, in all the sublimities passing in that lonely mind. In every existence-even and pressing interests of thy moral position. These lines in those least varied by change-seasons and events bave may baply be perused within a few hours of that dread occurred, to which memory reverts with a solemn feeling point in duration, where time passing into eternity, minof pleasure and regret:-pleasure, that such have once gles its sands with time that is to come. True, each heen enjoyed-regret, bitter indeed, that, not improved as instant of our lives bears the same mysterious relation. they might have been, they are passed away in their fresh- The present, however, is a season when the change is ness for ever. Upon like thoughts were the meditations more marked—the transition more solemn. Like the of the traveller. The wish of his boyhood's early enthu- traveller, therefore, on the Alpine height, whence extends siasm—the sobered, but not less ardent, aspiration of ma- one of the widest of terrestrial prospects, thou mayst turer years had been gratified. He had traversed lands seem now more especially to stand on a verge overlooking of glorious achievement; he had been where the great, the receding course of the past, and the dim perspective the good, the wise, the fortunate, had been. He had of the future year. visited the birth-place of much that is noblest-of still Our meditations, too, if we commune honestly with more that is most exquisite in the intellectual history of our own hearts, must, in no small degree, resemble the human kinu

thoughts of the traveller. Well must we yet recollect,

with what ardour of good intention we entered upon the “ What charms in genius, and refines in art." year now passed away. Time has fulfilled all its pro

mises to us. Its storied page, rich with the present A rich and ample page had been unrolled, and was now moral, and ancient experience, has been fairly unrolled ; folded up for ever;-had he perused it as he tairiy might? opportunities have been afforded us; our prayers for life, Alas! his own heart, which could not deceive, responded health, and the capabilities of knowledge, have been gra-No! First, he had neglected to come prepared for the ciously beard. Have we profited to the utmost, or even study. He had next found or fancied the characters to as we might readily have done? Alas! no.. The year be dimmed and difficult. Often had he been seducerl by which, in anticipation, beheld our resolutions so fair, now, pleasure, often turned, in very recklesness, away from the in the retrospect, gives back only a sad array of time misinstruction which it was his duty to have sought, and by spent, exertion misapplied, disappointed hopes, unavailing which perseverance would have been rewarded. Yet had cares, and empty pleasures. Truly may our course apa he seemed to himself busy for the moment; but now a pear to have passed among moulderi, ; ** '!'» 0:0;s, mere nothing bounded his acquirements : how much had where are they? gone : they perisbed in the using. There he forgotten, how much more never learned! Oh! could on our onward way is the goodly fabric of our virtuous he return ! But return he could not.

actions-our high resolves, our active charities? They We willingly escape from self-condemnation. A change are not to be marked, or strew our path with the most comes over the spirit of his meditations. Had not the unseemly of all decay—the works of good design unfitraveller been disappointed ? What bad he seen ? A land nished or but begun. Vast and vainglorious piles do of tombs, of names--of perishing memorials of things that indeed indicate where we have been, reared to worldly had perished. The mighty and the wise may have been ambition, selfish gratification, or perishable fame. These, there, but slavery, and ignorance, and degeneracy dwell unlike the heathen fanes, over whose noble proportions where the Roman once ruled, and the haunts of ancient the traveller bad mourned, show nothing real, save folly; wisdom are doubtful or polluted. The proportioned co- but, too like those in their perverted use, ours bave been lumn lies defaced, or has been filched from its station by dedicated to the service of unclean idols ; polluted shrines ignoble cupidity, though guarding the memory of the hero they are, where we have given praise to the creature, -patriot-sage. Each glorious structure which taste and / unmindful of the glory of the Creator. science reared, which nations dedicated, has become an Shall we then arraign the prospects and opportunities unseemly wreck—the tomb, not only of its own beauty, of our pilgrimage, or despair of improvement? God forbut of genius also—burying the breathing marble, and bid. The retrospect of the past will convince us, that the speaking frieze. If bright forms and pure scenes if we have not reaped, it is because we have failed to aphave met his view, they are fed forever, and their part- preciate our advantages. This truth firmly established ing light casts but more dismal shadows over the solitudes -and where can a doubt find place ?-will both direct of memory.

and cheer us in the work of improvement. Salutary But another change has been wrought in the medita- reflection on former errors, a last look not only to each tions of the traveller. A holier flow has purified the year, but to each day, or each hour, will strengthen course of feeling. The scarcely audible tones of the ves our judgment, and purify our practice for the future. per bell, rising from these grey towers far below, have From the very ruins of our past lives we shall thus erect smote upon his ear, not in reproach, but to recall the the fair memorial of a virtuous fame. Thus had the trawarm sensibilities of the present, linked with the undes- veller noted in the land of his journeying, that oft near rried interests of futurity. A truer tone chastened his the heathen fane had arisen the Christian temple, ex

musings. Much, indeed, he still found had been neglect-tracting its noblest ornaments from the fallen mass, and ied on his part, and much had disappointed his awakened giving to primeval holiness of purpose the fruits of that

expectations and bis ignorant hopes. But much, like-genius which Heaven had bestowed, and man debaseda wise, had been learned ; and though he had beheld only restiges of ages past, the footsteps of ancient virtue and ancient wisdom had impressed these remains with a

A LOVE SONG. hallowed character. Like the broken fragments of the vase in which has been stored some precious and abiding

By John Malcolm. perfume, the monuments of past perfection, and remi The days of Mayhood, how bright and charming, niscences of moral greatness, had sent forth into his heart In sweet remembrance of long ago, and understanding a sacred influence ;--he now found it And still the dream of my spirit warming had been good for him to have been there. Subdued and From far away, with their summer glow; calm, the traveller arose to journey forward, ere the sha When, all entrancing to early bosoms, days of night should involve his mountain-path. Soon A seraph beauty did woman wear;

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A TALE.

SHAKSPEARE.

And of her lips, oh! the balmy blossoms !

stormy west; and as evening drew on, and a single The bliss was almost too much to bear!

light faintly glimmered from one of the windows of his

mansion, he bas brushed a hot tear from his eye, and And, then, how dear was each stolen meeting started into recollection. It was dark ere he came home, Life's angel-visits, so brief, but blest ;

and the winds bowled drearily. In their sitting-roomAt her approach when the heart was beating

a room but barely furnished—he found his wife plying As it would burst from the swelling breast.

her needle beside the lamp, and at a little distance the But, oh! what set the young frame a-glowing

dying flame of the wood fire threw its ghastly flickerWould now be felt only faint and cold,

ings on the pale face of his daughter. He stood at the And not because we are wiser growing,

door, and leant upon his gun in silence. They knew his Alas ! the heart is but waxing old.

mood, and were silent also. His eye was fixed upon his

daughter ; she would have fascinated yours too. It was Then bloom'd each fresh and each vernal feeling, no common countenance. Not that any individual feature

Unchill'dunblighted by shade and shower, could have been singled out as peculiar, but the general And sprung the rose-tinted blush, revealing

expression was such as, once seen, haunted the memory The heart's spring-glow in its passion fower.

for ever.

Perhaps it was the black eye-blacker than And that first love, from which life doth borrow the ebon hair-contrasted with the deadly paleness of her The after hues of its joy or pain

white-rose cheek. It was deep sunk, too, under her brow. Oh! I would live o'er its years of sorrow,

But it is needless to form conjectures : none knew in To dream away my sweet youth again!

what that expression originated—there was a mystery in it. She had a long thin arm, and tapering fingers, and a

hand crossed by many a blue vein. Its touch was in THE DEAD DAUGHTER.

general thrillingly cold, yet at times it was feverishly hot. Her mother had borne many a child, but all died in early

infancy. Yet her father's fondest wish was to see a son By Henry G. Bell.

rising by his side into manhood ; nor did he despair of What may this mean,

having the wish gratified. It was said his dying comSo horridly to shake our disposition

mands would have given that son much to do. With thoughts beyond the reaches of our soul?

Paulina was now thirteen; but the canker was busy

within, and even her mother saw at last that she, too, The building was a solitary one, and bad a cold and was to be taken from her. It was a stern dispensation ; forbidding aspect. Its tenant, Adolphus Walstein, was a the only child of her heart,--the only one whom her man whom few liked: not that they charged him with any sleepless care had been able to fence in from the grasp of crime, but he was of an unsocial temperament; and ever the spoiler,,her meditation and her dream for thirteen since he came to the neighbourhood, thinly inhabited as years,—the one only sad sunbeam whose watery and it was, he had contracted no friendship, formed no ac uncertain ray lighted up their solitude. But evil had quaintance. He seemed fond of wandering among the followed them as a doom, nor was that doom yet commountains; and his house stood far up in one of the pleted. wild valleys formed by the Rhætian Alps, which inter She died upon an autumn evening. She had been sect Bohemia.

growing weaker for many a day, and they saw it, but He was married, and his wife had once been beautiful. spoke not of it. Nor did she; it seemed almost a pain She even yet bore the traces of that beauty, though some for her to speak; and when she did, it was in a low soft what faded. She must have been of high birth too, for tone, inaudible almost to all but the ear of affection. her features and gait were patrician. She spoke little; Yet was the mind within her busy with all the restless but you could not look on her and fancy that her silence activity of feverish reverie. She had strange day-dreams; was for lack of thought.

and life and the distant world often flashed upon her in They had one only child-a daughter-a pale but far more than the brightness of reality. Often, too, all beautiful girl. She was very young—not yet in her faded away; and though her eyes were still open, darkteens_but the natural mirth of childhood characterised ness fell around her, and she dwelt among the mysteries her not. It seemed as if the gloom that had settled and immaterial shapes of some shadowy realm. It would round her parents had affected her too; it seemed as if be fearful to know all that passed in the depth of that she had felt the full weight of their misfortunes, almost lonely girl's spirit. It was an autumn evening-sunny, before she could have known what misfortune was. She but not beautiful, silent, but not serene.

She had smiled sometimes, but very faintly; yet it was a lovely walked to the brook that came down the mountains, and smile,-more lovely that it was melancholy. She was which formed a pool and babbling cascade not a stonenot strong; there was in her limbs none of the glowing cast from the door. Perhaps she grew suddenly faints vigour of health. She cared not for sporting in the for her mother, who stood at the window, saw her fresh breeze on the hill-side. If ever she gathered wild-coming more hastily than usual across the field. She flowers, it was only to bring them home, to lay them in went to meet her; she was within arm's-length, when her her mother's lap, and wreathe them into withered gar- daughter gave a faint moan, and, falling forward, lands.

twined her cold arms round her mother's neck, and looked Much did they love that gentle child: they had nothing up into her face with a look of agony. It was only for else in the wide world to love, save an old domestic, and a moment ; her dark eye became fixed-it grew white a huge Hungarian dog. Yet it was evident Paulina with the whiteness of death, and the mother carried her could not live; at least her life was a thing of uncer child's body into its desolate home. tainty-of breathless hope and fear. She was tall beyond If her father wept-it was at night when there was her years; but she was fragile as the stalk of the white no eye to see. The Hungarian dog howled over the crowned lilly. She was very like her mother; though dead body of its young mistress, and the old domestic sat there was at times a shade upon her brow that reminded by the unkindled hearth, and wept as for her own firstyou strongly of the darker countenance of her father. It born; but the father loaded his gun, as was his wont, was said, that when he took his gun, and went out all day and went away among the mountains. in search of the red-deer, far up among the rocky heights, he The priests came, and the coffin, and a few of the would forget his purpose for hours, and seating himself simple peasants. She was carried forth from her chamupon some Alpine promontory, would gaze upon his lonely ber, and her father followed. The procession winded house in the valley below, till the sụn went down in the down the valley. The tickling of the holy bell mingled

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sadly with the funeral chant. At last the little train | step, his daughter moved across the room ; at the door, disappeared ; for the churchyard was among the hills, she was about to kiss her mother, but Walstein thunsome miles distant. The mother was left alone. She dered out, “ Forbear !” and rising, closed the door with fell upon her knees, and lifted up her eyes and her clasped trembling violence. Philippa had often seen her husband hands to her God, and prayed—tervently prayed, from the in his wilder moods, but seldom thus strangely agitated; depths of her soul—that he might never curse her with yet, had she known the conviction that had arisen in his another child. The prayer was alınost impious; but she mind, she would have ceased to wonder. was frantic in her deep despair, and we dare not judge He had watched long and narrowly, and now he was ber.

unable to conceal longer from himself the fearful truth. A year has passed away, and that lonely house is still It was not in her wan beauty alone that she resembled in the Bohemian valley, and its friendless inmates haunt her sister—it was not merely in the external developeit still. Walstein's wife bears him another child, and ment of her form; he knew, he felt, that the second hope almost beats again in his bosom, as he asks, with Paulina, born after her sister's death, was the same Pausomewhat of a father's pride, if he has now a son. But lina as she whom he had laid in the grave. There was hor. the child was a daughter, and his hopes were left unful. ror in the idea, yet could it not be resisted.

But even filled. They christened the infant Paulina ; and many now he breathed it not to his wife, and silently they a long day and dreary night did its mother hang over its passed to their chamber. The secret of his soul, however, cradle, and shed tears of bitterness, as she thought of her which he would never have told her by day and awake, who lay unconscious in the churchyard away among the the wretched Philippa gathered from him in his unconhills. The babe grew, but not in the rosiness of health. scious mutterings in the dead watches of the night. Yet it seldom suffered from acute pain ; and when it When the thought came upon her, it fell upon her heart wept, it was with a kind of suppressed grief, that seemed like a weight of lead. Her maternal affection struggled almost unnatural to one so young. It was long ere it with it, and with the thousand proofs that came crowdcould walk; when at last it did, it was without any pre- ing of themselves into her memory, to strengthen and vious effort.

to rivet it, and the struggle almost overturned her reason. Time passed on without change and without incident. The Paulina, in whom her heart was wrapped up Paulina was ten years old. Often had Philippa, with twelve years ago, had frequently dreams of a mysterious maternal fondness, pointed out to her husband the resem- meaning, which she used to repeat to her mother when blance which she alleged existed between their surviving no one else was by. A few days after the occurrences child and her whom they had laid in the grave. Wal- of the evening to which we have alluded, the living child, stein, as he listened to his wife, fixed his dark penetrating who had come in the place of the dead, told Pbilippa she ege upon his daughter, and spoke not. The resemblance had dreamt a dream. She recited it, and Philippa shudwas, indeed, a striking one,—it was almost supernatural. dered to hear an exact repetition of one she well rememShe was the same tall pale girl, with black, deep, sunk eyes, bered listening to long ago, and which she had ever since and long dark ebon hair. Her arms and hands were pre- locked up in her own bosom. Even in sleep, it seemed cisely of the same mould, and they had the same thrill- that, by some awful mystery, Paulina was living over ing coldness in their touch. Her manners, too, her dis- | again. position, the sound of her voice, her motions, her habits, Time still passed on, and the pale child shot up into a and, above all, her expression of countenance—that cha girl. She was thirteen; though a stranger would have racteristic and indescribable expression—were the very thought her some years older. It was manifest that she, same. Her mother loved to dwell upon this resemblance; too, was dying. (There was a dismal doubt haunted her but her father, though he gazed and gazed upon her, yet father's mind whether she had ever lived.) She never ever and anon started, and walked, with hasty strides spoke of her deceased sister ; indeed, she seldom spoke across the room, and some times, even at night, rushed out at all; but when they asked if she were well, she shook into the darkness, as one oppressed with wild and fearful her head, and stretched an arm towards the churchyard. fancies.

To that churchyard her father went one moonlight They had few of the comforts, and none of the luxuries | night. It was a wild fancy, yet he resolved to open his of life, in that Bohemian valley. Pbilippa had carefully daughter's grave, and look once more upon her moulderlaid aside all the clothes that belonged to her dead daugh-ing remains. He had a reason for his curiosity, which ter; and now that the last child of her age was growing he scarcely dared own even to himself. He told the sexton up, and was so like her that was gone, she loved to dress of his purpose ; and, though the old man guessed not her sometimes in her sister's dress; and the pale child his object, he took his spade and his pickaxe, and speedily wore the clothes, and talked of the lost Paulina, almost commenced his task. It was an uncertain night. The as if she had known her.

wind came in gusts, and sometimes died away into One night her mother plied her needle beside her strange silence. The dim moonlight fell upon the white lamp, and at a little distance her daughter, in a simple tomb-stones, and the shadows of the passing clouds white dress, which had onee been another's, sat musing glided over them like spirits. The sexton pursued his over the red embers of a dying tire. A thunder storm work, and had already dug deep. Walstein stood by his was gathering, and the rain was already falling heavily. side, Walstein entered ; his eye rested on his daughter, and he “ I have not come to the coffin yet," said the old man, almost sbrieked; but he recovered himself, and with a in a tone bordering upon wonder ; “ yet I could tell the quivering lip sat down in a distant corner of the room. very spot blindfold in which I put it with these hands His Hungarian dog was with him; it seemed to have thirteen years ago." caught the direction of his master's eye, and as its own “ Dig on, for the love of Heaven !" said Walstein, and rested keenly on Paulina, the animal uttered a low growl. his heart began to beat audibly. There was a short It was strange that the dog never seemed to love the pause. child. It is probable that she was hardly aware of her “ My digging is of no use," said the sexton. father's entrance, for she appeared absorbed in her own past the place where I laid the coffin; and may the Holy thoughts. As the blue and Hickering Aame fell upon her Virgin protect me, for there is not a vestige either of it or face, she smiled faintly.

the body left." “ O God! it is ! it is !” cried Walstein, and fell sense Walstein groaned convulsively, and leapt into the less on the floor.

grave, but in vain ; the sexton had reported truly. He His wife and daughter burried to his assistance, and had just stept up again into the moonlight, when a cold be recovered; but he pointed to Paulina, and said fal- hand was laid upon his shoulder. He started, and turnteringly, “ Philippa l-send her to bed." With a quiet ing round, saw that his daughter stood beside him,

“ I am

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“ Paulina! just Heaven ! what can have brought you so far from home?-at night, too, and weak as you are? it will be your destruction."

She took no notice of the question, but fixing her quiet look upon the grave, she said—“ Father, I shall soon lie there."

It was the thirteenth anniversary of Paulina's death, and the swollen brook was brawling hoarsely down the mountains, for a tempestuous autumn had already anticipated winter. The shutters of the upper chamber were closed, and Philippa sat by the sick-bed of her last child. The sufferer raised her pale and languid head, and whilst her dark eye appeared to wander in the delirium of fever, she said, with a struggle, "Mother, is it not a mysterious imagination,—but I feel as if I had lived before, and that my thoughts were happier and better than they are now?" Philippa shuddered, and gazed almost with terror upon her child. “ It is a dream, Paulina ; one of the waking dreams of over-watchfulness. Be still, sweet girl; an hour's sleep will refresh you." As she spoke, Paulina did sleep, but there was little to refresh in such slumber. Her whole frame was agitated convulsively ;-her bosom heaved with unnatural beating ;her hands alternately grasped the coverlid, as if to tear it into shreds, and were ever and anon lifted up to her head, where her fingers twined themselves among the tresses of her ebon hair; her lips moved incessantly; her teeth chattered; her breath came short and thick, as if it would have made itself palpable to the senses. Terrible gibberings succeeded, and her poor mother knew that the moment of dissolution was at hand. In an instant all was still,—the grasp of the band was relaxed,—the heaving and the beating ceased,—the lips were open, but the breath of life that had ebbed and flowed between them Hari fizis?;s t its task, and was gone: a damp distillation si:30:02 the brow,--it was the last sign of agony which ex ring nature gale.

That night Walstein dreamed a dream. Paulina, wrapt in her winding-sheet, stood opposite his couch. Her face was pale and beautiful as in lite, but under the folds of her shroud he discovered the hideous form of a skeleton. The vision became double · a grave opened as if spontaneously, and another Paulina burst the cerements asunder, and looked with her dead eye full upon her father. Walstein trembled, and awoke. A strange light glanced under his chamber door. Who was there stirTing at the dead hour of night? He threw the curtains aside.

The moon was still up; an indescribable impulse urged him to rush towards the room in which the body of his daughter lay. He passed along the lobby ;-the door of the chamber was open ; the Hungarian dog lay dead at the threshold ; the corpse was gone.

I dauner'd up to shut the door, For louder still the wind did rear,

But back I stagger'd, As, help'd in by a rushing blast, The 'open doorway quickly past,

In Winter swagger'd.

Frae his auld shouthers down did fa'
A mantle o' the driven snaw,

Like swandown tippet ;
For periwig, he had a fog,
Set jauntily upon his nob,

And nicely clippet.

Lang icicles hung frae his chin,
His een were blear'd, his mouth fa'en in,

He look'd fu' wae ;
His nose was red, his cheeks were blue,
His mottled legs, o' every hue,

Were bare and blae.

“ Gudeman," said he, as I gaed past, Your door was open'd by a blast

Aye gangs beside me;
And, oh, it gies me muckle pain
To find my subjects flout my reign,

And canna bide me.

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Got up, a perfect hobbleshew,
For wife and weans, a merry crew,

Came thranging in.

“ Wi' friendly hand and tender care,
I send my storms to clear the air ;

And raging food,
To wisest purposes I tend ;
And may you see that in the end

They're for your good ! “ I mind, alas, the days of old, When men were hardy, brave, and bold,

Nor fear'd my rigour; Who would of snaw their pillow make, Nor ever thiok to grane and quake,

So strong their vigour.

Cauld Winter would nae langer sit; “ Certie,” said he, “it's time to flit ;

My loudest blast Is naething to a woman's tongue !" And saying this, awa he flung,

And out he past.

NUGÆ LITERARIÆ.

“ Ye now have grown a feckless race, There's hardly ane can bear my face,

Though happ'd wi' claes ; Ye are unlike these men of might, Whose arms were powerful in the fight,

Ay, these were days!

" I mind me well, how blythe and sweet, The leddies fear'dna me to meet

On causeway's crown ;
Wi' wee mode cloaks, and elbows bare,
Silk mittens on tbeir arms sae fair,

And scrimpit gown.

But now the misses look sae gaucy, As they sail by wi' air sae saucy,

Smoor'd to the nose Wi' boas, tippets, cloaks, and muffs, Lang veils, and nicely crimpet ruffs,

And Shetland hose.

“ Poets and lovers make a fraise About the summer's golden days,

And sunny bowers; And haver about buzzing bees, And meadows green, and waving trees,

And blushing flowers:

Bat, certie, they would look gey queer, Were Sol to rule through a' the year,

Their skins to roast ; They'd glad exchange their trees and bowers, Their shrubs and plants, and fragrant flowers,

For clinking frost.

By the Author of " Dialogues on Natural and Revealed

Religion," 8c. Ethics- The science of conduct and manners, considered more with a view to practice than theory. The term, Moral Philosophy, comprehends, farther, the metaphysical discussions concerning the principles of moral approbation, whether they belong to a particular faculty, or may be resolved into some more general fact in the human constitution. The ethical, or practical branch, was more exclusively the moral philosophy of ancient times. It is treated with much fulness, ability, and eloquence, in the writings Aristotle and Cicero. In modern times, ethics, properly so called, has necessarily been connected with religion ; and the strongest motives to a virtuous life, and the laws by which it is regulated, have been derived from the sources of Divine revelation. Hence, except in the pulpit, or in treatises professedly religious, we seldom meet with ethical discussions. To separate morality from religion, is commonly looked upon with a suspicious eye. The one seems imperfect without the other; and accordingly, there are few modern books of mere morality, which are written with much glow and animation, or which find a ready sympathy in the reader. It is in the writings of the illustrious ancients that ethics appear in all their dignity ; because, so far from being any thing inferior to the system of religion in those ages, they were evidently a great improvement upon it. The more professed ethical writers of modern times have generally exhibited the systein of human duties under a more worldly and less elevated aspect than those of antiquity. Wishing to avoid as much as possible the topics and the tone of the pulpit, they have restricted their views to mere prudential considerations, or have even polluted the springs of morality by the corrupt maxims and fashions of the day. In the hands of Aristotle or Cicero, and perhaps still more in those of Xenophon and Plato, morality seems always to be rising above the present sphere of existence, and to be struggling to break into some higher field. In the moralists of the French school, lead is rather tied to its wings; or while they are painted with artificial colours, they beat and flutter amidst impurity and defilement. There are many important and lively observations on life and manners in Montagne, Rochefoucauld, and our own Chesterfield; but they do not produce that elevation of thought and feeling, which is so inspiring in the great writers of antiquity; and they often, on the contrary, mislead and debase. The finest moral writers of modern times are Fénélon and Addison, because they are at all times drawing their inspiration from the sources of Christianity, even while they profess to do little more than to moralize after the manner of Socrates.

Filial Piety. It is a pleasing circumstance to observe in heathen times certain compensations for the gross corruption and follies of their religious system. could bave no moral satisfaction in the worship of their deities, they enjoyed somewhat of the sublimity of the religious sentiment in their devotion to their country, and Filial Piety came in the room of the tenderness and submissiveness of that sentiment to which now the term

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