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lilt in the change. Such is the work ol Lpicu.
risrn.
16.
We perpetually fancy ourselves intellectual
ly transparent when we are opaque, ana moi
ully opaque when we are transparent.
17.
It was the middle of Aftgust. The sun was
setting in a rainy sky, wiiich hid the disk be
hind a dark bank of cloud. Ihe high tide oi
the distant sea had caused the river to over
flow a portion of its green and wooded banks.
The whole unbounded plain, from tne beig.it
on which the two spectators stood, iooked a
bed of meadow and vineyard, through w hie a
the large and quiet river, with a few small
sails upon its surface, flowed unheared and
waveless to the city, which extended its shape
ly bridge, and raised its Gothic towers and
soires in the becalmed and noiseless evening.
The sun was invisible, but hung near enough
to the lower edge of the clouds to shoot a bright
red gleam obliquely, across the river from a
bove the town, and to tinge the lake-like inun
dation with aglow, broken to the eyes of the
gazers by the trees in the hedges oi the flood
ed fields. The town alone broke the straight
line of the horizon, and between its buildings
and the skirt of the clouds was spread a pale
clear amber air, while all around the shy and
over the whole landscape the shades of green
and gray were dimly blending. The evening
bell sounded from a distant village church, and
the red light deepened and broadened on the
water with a ruby blaze, while the vapors and
land below the sun melted in a purple steam.
Then the border of the cloud itself kindled,
and from below it the sun’s rim dropped and
-'seemed to hang a steady benignant fire.
Through the broken clouds in the east, now
tinged by the same red light of sunset, the full
moon glanced serene. All was so peaceful
and unmoving, while the far-off chime scarce
ly floated to the ear, that time appeared to
have ceased its beatings, and for a moment
those two hearts lived in eternity.
18.
In the spiritual, as in the physical world, for
some portion of mankind, day is always dawn
ing; and none arc so dark as to want the tra
'dition of past light, and the faith of its return.
19.
To find the argument for the value of Chris
tianity on external evidence, and not. on the
condition of man, and the pure idea of God, is
to hold up a candle before our eyes that we may
better sec the stars. It may dazzle, but can
mot assist us.
20.
There is no lie that many men will not be
lieve ; there is no man who does not believe
many lies, and there is no man who believes
only lies.
21.
One dupe is as impossible as one twin.
'Z'Z.
Physical results can prove nothing but a
cause adequate to produce such, that is, a phys
ical cause; though, do"btless, these results,
’when subservient to a spiritual system, may
be used as illustrations of it. But the proofs
of a spiritual system must he drawn from itself,
must be spiritual proof and spiritually discern
ed. Therefore, to the perverted, faithless,
loveless mind, they cannot be made manifest;
and to attempt to argue a bad, base creature
into conscience and religion is a sowing of
corn in the sea. Arguments are only valid for
any man in proportion as he has the conscious
ness of the premises they are grounded on.
Tiie Epicurean, or greatest enjoyment-man,
may, in truth, not reason ill at all from the on- ;
ly grounds that his self-created habits and feel
ings permit him to be conscious of. 11 is creed
is the only logical one for swine and bubboons,
and if he chooses to make these his sect, it is
his moral election, not his dialectic understand,
ing, that we have a right to blame. From all
this it follows that the question, what is spirit
ual cultivation? How may the spirit in man
-be cultixated ? Is, of all practical questions,
infinitely the most important; or, indeed, that
•all others are but elements of this one.
23.
It is thoughtless to say that because all
things we know have each their cause, there
fore tlie whole must have a one-cause. We
see that within the bounds of nature every phe
nomenon has a cause; but this docs not enti
tle us to go beyond those bounds to look at na
ture from Without, and say that this too must
have a cause; for the argument is evidently
drawn only from the parts, and is unduly
stretched when we apply it to the whole,
though perfectly tenable when we merely rea
son from analogy, and conclude that as the
phenomena have causes, so must the
phenomena, we do not know. But every
movement of existence might be in turn cause
and result, and the whole be but a great ever
lasting wheel. It is as easy to imagine such a
system eternal and infinite author of it. But.
the real ground of religion is very different,
and may be suggested by the question;—Why
is the view of the universe, as this great self
included, self-reproducing whole, so weary and
fearful, at the very best, so unsatisfying a pros
pect for the human mind? How can it be
but because the sense that we need a God is
an infallible indication that there is one, an ex
tra mundane creator, the idea of whom is con
sistent with all we know of the universe, and
absolutely required by our best and deepest
knowledge of ourselves and our fellow-crea
tures.
24.
—Thou unmoving mass! wherefore
djst thou bur mv wav ?
Stone. —Thou idle' wanderer! Water rolled
me hither. Quarrel with it. not with me. But
wherefore, I may ask in turn, dost thou flutter
against me?
Leaf. —Wind blew me hither. Blame it,
not me.
Slone —Then mav water and wind contend
together, and dispute i;istead[of us; while thou
and I remain at peace.
Leaf. —Nay, but water and wind will not
, struggle in anger. For a sweet bird sang one
summer evening amidst njy tree, and from him ]
f learnt that they are fair twin-sisters; and
when they seem to wrestle, it is but to dance
together and embrace ; and when they uplift
their voices it is but to join in song.
25.
Every man has consciousness worse than
the world would endure to hear of, but also
wiser and better ones than it approves. Os
these more memorable inward awakenings is
the idea which has always haunted mankind
of a universal, however indefinable, affinity i
between themselves and the whole universe.
We feel at times assured, though often unable
to express even to ourselves the fact, that tlie
forms and laws of all other beings are all a
portion of the forms and laws of our being.
Somehow, although we know not how, it is my
self that seems to me repeated, or prophesied,
or drawn out into story in every thing I see.
It is something of myself, some vast primordi
al matrix of my life that glooms before me
with closed eyes and folded senses in the dark
huge rock. The doubts and struggles of my
earnest hours are the strivings of a spirit work
ing in fraternal union with that which animates
the stormy landscapes, and groans in the bo
soms c f the ancient pine-trees. It seems to
be a single deep and blissful heart, from which
proceed at once the gentle and pious breathing
of my devotion, and the pervading loveliness j
of this transparent sunset as it melts into a j
starry night. So I and all tilings around me
appear but different reflections of one greet ex
istence. Some in dimmer, some in clearer, in
grey, or purple, or golden, in smooth, or dis- i
torting mirrors. But there are still more 1
startling suggestions, when this kind of impres
sion works upon us, not only from all the low
er appearances, but from men themselves ; [
when it is revealed to us that all the world of
intellect, passion, and imagination, all poems, i
histories, and mythologies, all tragic and hero
ic strains of life, exist by implication in every
individual breast. For every man has in truth
within himself, though buried, perhaps, under
granite pavements of custom and ignorance,
and under immemorial beds of cold lava, what- j
ever was thought by tlie priests of Thebes, or ,
with the sinking towers of Babylon rolled into
oblivion before tlie triumph of Cyrus, and all !
that was evoked from darkness by tlie ly re of j
Homer. Our whole constitution is prepared
for the impulse, us the electric matter lies fold- :
ed in the cloud. Give but this shock, and then ;
might the beggar, the negro bondmand, or the ■
shrivelled money-hoarder find flashing in his
brain an lago, a Falstaff, a Juliet, a Lear;
might rule as Timour a hundred kingdoms,
and a million of horsemen ; in the person of
Caesar woo a Cleopatra; teach as Plato, hear
as Aristotle, die as Socrates; ns Columbus
fashion a living, substantial world with the lines
of a pencil on a chart: and as Isaiah thunder
strike the aposte Kings of Judah, in whose wa
vering, greedy, cruel hearts he would also find
an image of his own. So large, manifold, and
one is our existence. Yet wo to him who in
this contemplat : on forgets that the life which is
at the root of all, and its substance, is good, is
true, is holy ; and works its way through an
infinite scheme of forms to rest forever in that
godlike consciousness.
26.
There arc emotions in man so subtle and
precious that he cannot find for them, even un
uttered words. For sympathy is the vital air
of language; and thoughts, and feelings which,
by their nature, must be the birdi of out deep
est and most solitary moments, of those the
least disturbed by the murmur of crowds, can
never to crowds be communicated without a
sense of unfitness and shame in the mind of
the speaker, and a sense of irritation and re
pugnancy in the hearers. This higher and
more inward language, therefore, supposing
such to be possible, could never have had the
opportunity of arising. But the more medita
tive and vocal spirits may for themselves and
the comparatively few who are as themselves,
indicate the shooting or lambent light, insig
nificant images, and perpetuate these in writ
ten speech, a legacy for all ages of consolation
to the few, and to the many of perplexity.
Such things cannot, even in rare moments of
serene and devout colloquy, be more palpably
expressed than by a glance, a hint, a sigh.
27.
The best and fairest world of which man can
form a complete and consistent image, is that
in which men live.
28.
Every fancy that we would substitute for a
reality, is, if we saw a right, and saw the whole,
not only false, but every was less beautiful
and excellent than that w hich we sacrifice to
it.
29.
The human heart is made for love as the
household hearth for fire ; and for truth as the
household lamp for light.
30.
Heaven and hell are mixed together to make
up this world, as light and darkness to com
pose the morning twilight.
r SI.
To wish that others should learn by our ex
perience is something as idle as to think that
we can eat aad they be filled. But when we
find that we ate poison, it is doubtless mercy
to warn them against the dish.
32.
All t! e sad infernal rivers flow ft om foun
tains in this upper world.
33.
He who conceived the images of Ixion, and
Sisyphus, Tantalus and the Danaids, must
have felt those miseries in himself before he
transferred them to other names.
34.
Superstition moulds i a'ure into an arbitrary
semblance of t h e supernatural, and then bows
down to the work of its own hands.
35.
The rudest granite block is the first sullen
and blind attempt at sculpture, as the same
plastic force, which working at last by the
hands of man, shaped the Olympic Jove, and
he Venus of Melos.
39.
Practical life does all for a purpose, yet it is
precisely in a reasonable ultimate purpose that
it is most likely to be wanting.
37.
The spontancou; life of emotion and imagi
nation ends in povverlessncss and emptiness,
and mere slavery to outward impressions, un
less its free movements be not indeed suppress
ed, but regulated towards distinct ends.
38.
Daily, customary life is a dark and mean
abode for man; and unless he often opens
the door and windows, and looks out into a
freer world beyond, the dust and cobwebs soon
thicken over every entrance ofliglit; and in
the perfect gloom lie forgets that beyond and
above there is an open air.
39.
He who is satisfied with existence so long i
as it shines brightly, forgets that snuffing the
candle will not prevent it from burning to the
socket.
40.
Men narrow their views in order to see
more distinctly, as they go to the bottom of a
well to see the stars at noon. But it is a
poor exchange to give sun-light for starlight.
41.
There arc characters so utterly and so un
consciously false and hollow, that they seem
like casts or impressions of men, similar to
those figures of fossil shells in rocks, where
there is no remnant of the shell itself, —rather
than real men, however mutilated and dwarfed.
And some such are plausible, full-blown spec
tacles, o:i whom day-light and general opinion
shine flatteringly ; while there shall be some
crabbed, uncouth, unhappy fragment of genu
ine human life that the whole universe scowls
on, yet in truth far worthier than the gaudy
image which overshadows and scorns it.
The one is but a glaring figure in nature’s
magic lantern; the other one of her misshapen,
disinherited children.
42.
Could we imagine a complete devil’s world
a world of lies, quacks would in it be the only
j professors, and proof of entire ignorance, and
| incapacity would be the only requisite for oh
| tainmg all degrees and diplomas. Yet so
j much is their akin to this in our actual world,
; that many among us would sigh for such a
I state of things as far a milleniuin, a golden age
—an age in which all literature would be puff-;,
1 all discourse compliments and rhetoric; and
he who wishes most earnestly to pass for a
! great man, without being one, would be at
once acknowledged worthiest of the honor.
43.
An excess of excitement and a deficiency
of enthusiasm may easily characterise the same
period.
44.
Enthusiasm is grave, inward, self-controlled;
j mere excitement outward, fantastic, hysterical,
i and passing in a moment from tears to laugh-
Tei;.
45.
Ail age of eager, random movement keeps
turning the windmill round and round, in
, hopes to grind the faster, forgetting that tlie
wind blows from but one point at one time.
i
The Three Sisters.
TRANSLATED FROM THE PIKENICIAIf, BV BULWER.
CHAPTER 1.
In an age which two or three thousand years
! «g° was considered somewhat of the earliest,
but which geologists have proved to have been
; but as yesterday. laopater reigned over those
| districts known to historians by the name of
i noeiiicia. An honest arbitrary, good sort of
a King be was; not altogether unlike our
: Henry the Eighth,—only he was not quite so
much master ol'his own house. Her majesty
led him a troublesome life—into the particulars
of which we need notenter, seeing that people
in t lis virtuous age have a disinclination to
scandal, and that the Greeks have made some
of the best stories sufficiently familiar in that
budget of gossip which they call a Mythology.
Ravenous a nos moutons.
lao-pater had a very large family— sons
and daughters without number. Ainon<r them,
by a. left-handed marriage, were three'"young
ladies, culled, in the language of that day*, Aza,
Merthyne, and Insla. Respecting tliese prin
cesses, we find a tale recorded in one of the
manuscripts consulted by Sanchoniathon, in
his works on the Serpent, which has not hith
erto been published.
I In the latter days of lao-pater his subjects
were visited by a most terrible species of mad
ness. Each man fancied, he saw a horrible
dragon upon the back of his neighbor, and was
instantly seized with a furious desire to attack
the monster. Thus, the moment your back
was turned, half a dozen of your countrymen
made a rush at you, one with a sword to hew,
another with a saw, to saw, a third with red
hot pincers, to pluck off*, the creature of their
imagination : if no other weapon was at hand,
t iey fastened an you with their nails and teeth.
Wnat made this malady more singular, while
t leir vict m perished under their m t lations,
they kept congratulating him u:i his approach
ing delivery from the dragon. The more he
bellowed for mercy, the worse he fared: when
once attacked in this manner his late was seal
ed, and, as he gave up the ghost, his tormen
ters, instead of suspecting they had done any
tiling wrong, shrugged their sholders and cried
—“ Tin’s comes of the dragon !”
So dreadful were the ravages and slaughter
resulting from this insanity, tiiat his his majes
ty’s dominions were nearly depopula'ed. lao
pater, in a great fright lest his own back should
be caught sight of, shut himself up in his pal
ace ; and all prudent persons, followed the
royal example, kept themselves? in doors, with
their backs screwed tight against tlie wall.
The soothsayers killed nine millions and forty -
two birds, and four hundred thousand sows,
but the entrails of the victims were obstinately
silent on the occasion, nor could any remedy
for the growing evil be suggested by counsel
lor or pile t.
At length, one night, Aza dreamed a dream.
She thought that the great deity, No-No, ap
peal eJ to her, and said—“ Arise and go forth
into the c’ty, and the people shall be delivered
from the c urse.” And Aza, the next morning,
sought lao-pater, who had crept into a hole of
tlie wall, so that nothing but his face was dis
cernible. Aza told her dream, arid implored
permission to obey the divine command.
“l)o as you like my dear child,” said the
King, but don’t come so close to me : and
mind, wherever you go, that you proclaim it
to be high treason to attempt to peep at my
back. As for otijer people’s backs—it is not
my affair.”
When Aza went forth from the palace, she
repaired to the royal gardens, and amused her
self with catching the mo. t beautiful butterflies
she could find. Having put them into a little
net of silver meshes, inconceivably line, she
took her way into the great street. Scarcely
had she gone three paces, when she heard a
tremenduous uproar and hallooing ; and pres
ently a young man, more beautiful than words
can describe, came bounding up the street,
pale, breathless, and frightened out of h’s wits,
and fell exhausted at tlie feet of the princess.
“Save me!—save me!” he cried out. I
am an unhappy stranger in this city, and a
whole mob are at my heels, swearing I have a
dragon at my back. As long as I spoke to
them, face to luce, they overwhelmed me with
civilities. But the moment I turned!—Ah,
here they are !” And, in fact, a score or two,
of ficrcc-looking citizens, some with hatchets,
some with pincers, some with long hooks—(all
for the dragon)—now thronged, hot, and pant
ing to the spot.
At the sight of Aza they halted abruptly,—
for there was something in her face so serene
and 1 ively, that even the wretched maniacs
felt the soothing influence of her beauty.
“ My friends,” said Aza, in a vo ce of sweet
command, “what would you do with this
young man ?”
“ Tlie dragon ! —the dragon ?”—shouted a
dozen voices, already hoarse with screaming.
“He has a dragon on his back ; we would not
harm him for the world!—a most cluruing
young man ! but the dragon, your royal high
ness, —the dragon!”
“ 1 have taken it off tie stranger’s back,”
said the princess, mildly. “ See, here it is.
Be!;old tlie terrible monster < hat so appals you ?”
So saying, she opened her hand, and away flew
one of tlie most beautiful, purple and gold but
terflies that e\er was seen.
As the insect fluttered and circled to and
fro, the crowd stared at it with open mouths.
“ Bless me,” cried one of them, “ and that’s
what we took for a dragon—so rt is !’’
“ Hollo ! you sir !” cried another, lifting up
his hatchet against the last speaker, who had
unw.ttingly turned round and exposed on his
back.—“ The dragon is on you /”
“ Hold !” exclaimed Aza, arresting the
mad man’s arm. “The God No-No has
changed all your dragons into bit erflics.”
M itn that, she turned aside, and, unperceived
by the ciowd, emptied the silver net. Tlie air
was filled with butterflies. Tlie crowd stared
again ; first at the insects, then at the princess,
then at one another. Fortunately, at that
time the God No-No, thought it a good oppor
tunity to thunder: the omen completed the
cure—and the mob woke all at oi.cj fto.n their
delusion.
Paganini’s fourth string.
In order to refute the many tales and ru
mours relative to tlie occasion which induced
the celebrated virtuoso to acquire such a w on
derful power of execution on the fourth string
of the violin, an Italian publication has lately
given tlie following particulars, professedly in
tlie words of the great master himself;— '
“ At Lucca I always led the ochestra when
ever the reigning family attended the opera.
I was so frequently sent into the Court circle,
and I gave a grand concert every fortnight.
Ihe Princess Eliza (Bacciocchi Napoleon’s
sister) always retired before the conclusion,
because the harmonic notes of my instrument
effected her nerves too powerfully. \ Vo .
amiable lady who I had long sin’ee secretly
adored, was frequently present at these narti ■'
and I soon perceived that a pleasing secret at*
traded her also to me. Our niutui 1 passions
imperceptibly gained strength. One fl av {
promised in the next concert to surprise h Cr
with a musical piece of gallantry, which should
huVe reference to the terms upon which \\ e
stood. At the same time I caused tlie Court
to be apprised that I meant to perform ane w
composition, with t! e 1 t!eof “ A Love Scene ”
Great curiosity was excite and, but what was
the amazement of the company when I enter
ed with a violin with but two strings! I had
left only the G and E string. The latter was
intended to express all the feelings of a voun?
female ; the former to imitate theioice of a
despairing lover. In this manner it executed
a kind of impassioned dialogue, in which the
tendered tones succeeded expressions of jeal
ousy'. At one time they were caressing at
another, tearful accords, cries of anger 5 and
rapture, of pain and felicity. A reconciliation
formed the close ; the lovers more enamoured
than ever of each other, performed a pas do
deux, which terminated in a brilliant coda—
Tlie “Scene” was highly applauded. I sav
nothing of the delighted looks which the lady
of my thoughts cast upon me. The Princess
Elza after lond’ng me with praises, said to me
flatteringly : “ You have done the impossible
on two strings; would not a single one be
enough for your talent!” I promised inline,
diately to make the trial.
This idea flattered my imagination, and in a
few weeks I composed for the fourth string a
sonato entitled Napoleon, which I performed
on tne 25th of August, before a numerous and
brilliant court. The success surpassed mv
expectations. From that time dates mv pre
deleetion for the G string. People were nev.
cr tired of listening to my pieces composed
ior that string. As one keeps learning from
day to day, so I gradually attained that profi.
cicncy, in wtiich there ought now to be noth,
ing astonishing.”
For the Southern Post.
TO HER.
Oh guileless heart! shall the winter’s breath
E’er blight thy early bud of love,
And crush its beauteous stem in death
And waft its purest sweets above ?
Shall the chilling frost creep in thy bower,
Its step unheard, its form unseen,
And nip the bud of that sweet flower,
And break the charm of my spirit’s dream ?
Then sure were earth no more to me,
Than the mighty waste which memory flings
O’er the turbid wove of oblivion’s sea,
Or the chaos which from the future springs—
A blank, a worse than blank ’twould be—
Where the wild bird flapps his sable wings—
A waste —where the voice of misery
In sadest echo, ever lings.
My harp unstrung no more should full
Thy tar w ith music rich and swee'.
But tiie murmurings of its magic thrill,
Would fall unlionortd at my feet;
And its maniac notes so sadly w ild
Would whisper love on the desert air,
Or greet the ear of sorrow’s child,
As it fell in tremulous accents there.
Sweet spirit! may the holy light
Os brighter days and happier hours,
Shine ’mid the gloom of early night
And soothe thee with its magic powers.
And oh, instead of wintry blight,
To lay in waste thy lovely flowers,
May heaven shed its sweetest light
And softest dews,o’er all thy bowers.
And though for me, no rose shall bloom,
Oi shed its perfume on the wind,
If thoucscapest a wretched doom
My pensive heart shall be resignd;
And oft I’ll fancy thee as blest
With one who worships at thy shrine.
And bears thine image in his breast
Eastamped by impress all divine.
And my heart shall pray each w inter morn
When it wakes from the troubled sleep of night,
That w hen the storm of death shall moan
In wildness round thy spirit’s light,
Angels may claim thee as their own
And heavenward bend their mystic flight,
Till in the high celestial zone
They’re lost in richest floods of light,
E. M. P.
For the Southern Post
LINES FROM AN ALBUM.
Who that bears
A human bosom, hath not often felt
llow dear are all those ties which bind our race
In gentleness together, and how sweet
Their force, let fortune’s wayward hand the while,
Be kind or cruel. Akcuside,
In life’s young hour, when Beauty throws her light
O’er Nature’s face, and gilds the path of life,
W idi charms of gaudy hue, without a thorn
T ,J mar the heart 's glad joy, in all the course
I hrough which unyielding late shall lead ;
V\ hen springs oi woe and disappointments keen,
Are hid beneath the false, deceiving veil,
Which youth o'er future hours unwisely casts,
The source of joy and happiness divine, —
The fount of gladness to the youthful heart,—
The active impulse of thesoid tosip
Insafia'e, at pleasure's ehrystal source,
And bask in all the fields of pure delight,
Imagination paints, concentre first,
In those sweet bonds of pure affection,
\\ liich binds congenial souls in ties of bliss;
Not by the union of unbounded wealth—
Ihe couch id indolence, and jewel’d grove,
Os all the fine emotions of the soul—
Nor mutual feelings of exalted rank,
The blazonry of pomp, and heritage
Entail’d by high ancestral fame and power,
3nt in that hour, when willing hearts unite,
To share alike the joys and wees of earth;
To live by virtue’s rules and wis ’om’s light,
< no; through life’s scenes, indissolutelyone.
To sink at last into a common grave, W # J