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242
ed—-just imagine all this, and you will have as
clear an idea of the order of affairs on my wed- .
ding night, as I could give you, with the waste of
quires of foolscap.
If the mere prospect of calling Helen Bently
my own had made me proud and happy, the
reader may well believe that the actual fruition
of my hopes filled my cup of bliss full. But you
can very readily imagine all my feelings. There
is no use in going into ecstasies about the mat
ter.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
I live about six miles from Hopeton. A little
farther on is Bella Plaza, the residence of Charles
Hampton, Esq. Fitzwarren is beautifying a
place between the last mentioned house and
Tom Harper’s. Tom has lately brought home a
beautiful bride —she was once Miss Kate Mor
gan—and I don’t know a happier man. So here
is a row of dear friends, strung out from Hope
ton to Bridgewood.
The two Warlocks —or Fitzwarrens —Jake and
Joe—after receiving their share of property, went
out west.
Bill Grant is still living, and still imagines
himself to be outlawed, when in fact all the peo
ple who wished to harm him are dead or have
moved away.
Fitzwarren was at my house not long ago, and
picked up a newspaper.
Have you seen this, Jack?” he said, after
reading a few moments, as he handed me the
paper, pointing out a paragraph.
It gave an account of the hanging of one Lor
raine, alias Fitzwarren, by a mob in California.
“ It is best, for us, Fitz,” I said, after reading
it, “ that this should have happened. There is
no danger in Jake and Joe. They have but lit
tle mind. Lorraine, though, was a man of intel
lect, and he would never have ceased his machi
nation.
“ Oh, he had been effectually frightened off,
Jack,” was the reply. “He would never have
troubled us again.”
“ Perhaps not. But away with unpleasant
reminiscences. I heard something the other day
which I fear is too good to be true —about my
friend Fitzwarren.”
“ What was it, Jack ?”
“ That you had been paying very particular at
tention to Miss Emma Morton.
“ You have heard truly, Jack. The object of
this visit is to inform you that the sweet, pen
sive beauty has consented to be mine.”
“ You’re a sly one, Fitzwarren. Why didn’t
you tell me something of what was going on? ”
“ Because, Jack," and for the first time in a
good while, Fitzwarren’s voice assumed the bit
ter tone so common to it when I first knew him,
“ Because I did not know but my love would be
spumed. Had that been the case, the secret
should have died locked in my own breast —un-
less she had chosen to divulge it."
“ But she loves me, my friend,” he continued,
his face becoming radiant with happiness. “She
loves me. Isn’t this joy enough for a mortal?”
—— ~~•—~~
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
HATTIE MAY AMD HER AUNT LEWIE.
“ Ugliness favorable to Genius.”" I look in
the glass ; I find lam very ugly, but alas! I
am no genius. I wonder why lam not one I—
’Tis true, that neither my father, nor grand-fa
ther, nor any of their relations, that ever I heard
of, were geniuses; but then, genius does not
run in families. Well,the reason of it is: lam
not lucky; never was, nor never will be. I don’t
suppose any one will doubt it, though—for I am
neither pretty, smart nor rich. The fact is, lam
totally out of patience with my lot; have been
getting more and more so, ever since I heard
Parson Lovegood’s sermon on “Contentment.”
The word has been ringing in my ears ever since
—how it taunts me 1 Well, that was one ser
mon which never did me any good, if Aunt Let
tie does call it a “ powerful effort,” and daily ad
vises me to profit by it. I wonder if she thinks
there is any reason in the wide world why I
should be contented. If she sees any, lam sure
Ido not. Now, there is Belle Hbward; she is
beautiful —none dispute that—she cannot walk
into the street but every one is admiring her,
and asking her name; then there are verses
written to her “ bright, black eyes,” her “curls
of jet,” to her “ angelic smile,” to the “ roses of
her cheek,” —in fact, it is enough to make any
one vain, the admiration she has bestowed on
her. You may preach contentment to her, Par
son Lovegood; she will listen to you and praise
your sermon ; it is not hard for her to be con
tented.
Then there is Clara Ray; her father, they
say, is worth a half million, and she his only
child. What a lucky girl! Nothing to do but
to dress, and entertain the guests at her father's
beautiful mansion. What splendid silks she
wears ! Why they are almost enough to dazzle
your eyes; and as to the beaux, there is no
end to them —not that I care anything about
beaux—pshaw, no I Then, when summer comes,
what a glorious time she must have at Saratoga
and Newport. Oh 1 Clara Ray 1 Clara Ray ! if
I were only like you, I too might be contented.
Then, there is Florence Gray; she is a genius;
she will have the proud world’s praise and admi
ration ; she will have fame. Oh ! happy, hap
py Florence Gray! it were well to talk of con
tentment to you.
Then there is yes, there is myself. Well,
what am I ? beautiful ? Well, the idea is simply
ridiculous. A genius? I should think not;
was considered almost a dunce at school •, Rich ?
No! by the bare whitewashed walls of my
attic room —the little pine table, and the oaken
chair on which I sit; not rich ! What then ?
Well, lam poor, ill-fated Mattie May; with no
thing in the world to make her contented or hap
py—and here I am—fifteen years, fifteen long
vears, of my life gone already !
$ * $ ♦ ❖
“ Mattie, my dear, come here: take a seat
close beside me —there, that will do. Now you
expect Aunt Lettie lias a lecture for you,—so
she has. Do you know that you were thinking
aloud, last evening, and that I heard all ? It’s
true —naughty girl that you are! And you can’t
imagine how it grieved me, to find you were so
discontented and unhappy. You complain that
you are homely; do you remember Lillie White,
the poor, deformed cripple ? Think of her dis
torted face, and ill-shapen figure : think of her
life ; how sad and wearisome it must have been
—childhood for her had no merry romps; no
glorious tramps over the hills, in the -meadows,
and by the brook-side ; her fingers never pluck
. ed the violet and butter cups from their leafy
beds. Alas! her feet refused to bear her light
form, and it was her’s to sit alone, 1 unable to
move, save when assisted by sbrne friendly arm.
As womanhood approached, there was no
change ; the same unsightly form and face; the
same hopeless cripple; no place for her amid the
mazes of the merry dance, nor yet among the
young and gay, as they laughed and chatted joy
ously away the bright hours. No, no ! she had
no place amid the happy throng; the sight of
her, perchance, might have chased the smile from
rosy lips, and filled with tears bright eyes un
used to look on so much woe. Oh! Mattie, when
SOTT3!K£&N MMto BISUE8XB&.
you feel like murmuring that you are not beau
tiful, think of Lillie White ; think of her, and
thank God that in His mercy, He saw not fit to
make you such as she. You complain that you
are poor ; ’tis true that no splendid mansion is
your home : that you are not surrounded by the
luxuries of wealth: yet, my child, have you
ever wanted for bread ? When the winter was
cold and chill, have you ever lacked a kindly
roof to shelter you from the stormy blasts ? The
white-washed walls of your attic room may be
bare indeed ; yet, have the wintry winds ever
whistled through them ? have you ever sat by
your hearth-side shivering over a few dying em
bers, knowing that when they were gone you
must perish with cold ? have you ever lacked
kind friends to love and care for you ? Ob !my
child, think of the homeless and friendless, with
no one to love them ; no one to cheer and com
fort them in their sorrow ; think of them per
ishing with hunger and cold; then, thank God
that your lot was not such as theirs. Think of
them, and cease to be unhappy that you are not
beautiful, nor rich, nor talented. A contented
mind, Mattie, is worth more than beauty, wealth
or talents. There, give me a kiss, dear Mattie,
and go to your morning reading. Don’t indulge
in any more such reveries as you did last even
ning. They are not good for you—and mind
you !—don't think aloud any more. Mattie, at
fifteen, ought to be a wiser girl. There —give
me a kiss, you dear little thing—and now, go !
—
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
THE CITY OF THE DEAD.
BY ANNIE R. BLOUNT.
There is a beautiful city,
Laid out in walk and square;
Where flowers in rich profusion
Perfume the summer air.
‘Tis there the willow waveth,
And the violet lilts its head;
And they call this lovely city
The city of the dead!
The breeze, in gentle dalliance,
From flower to flower roves;
And the very air seems purer
In those quiet, shaded groves.
No sound disturbs the stillness—
No laughter, rude and loud;
For there's something in that city
Awes even the gayest crowd.
And, side by side, there slumber
The rich man, and the poor;
There foes lie down together,
Nor wrong each other more.
There sleep the great, the lowly,
The same trees o’er them wave;
For earth's proud and vain distinctions
Are levelled by the grave.
Here, some weary, aged warrior
Quietly takes his rest;
And near him some pale young mother,
With her baby on her breast.
There, the wealthy merchant slumbers,
And dreams no more of gain;
There, the widowedone forgetteth
Life’s weariness and pain.
There, sleep in pence together
Betrayer and betrayed;
The wronged lies down by the wronger,
And feels no more afraid;
And, afar in some lone corner,
Slumbers the suicide—
No marble tablet telling
llow he lived, and how he died!
The bride, in her fair young beauty,
With orange buds in her hair;
And the wedding robe around her,
Sleeps calm and peaceful there.
There, the orator proud reposes,
A stone at head and feet;
A nameless one lies near him,
Whose rest is just as stceet.
Artist, Statesman, and Poet!
Wooers alike of fame;
Yonr haunting dreams have vanished
And a white slab bears yonr name.
Ah! who has not bowed with weeping
Over some coffined head;
For we alt have loved and lost ones
In the city of the dead!
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
BACON AND BACONIANISM.
BY CANCELLABIUS.
Franciscos de Verulamio sic cogitavit. Such
were the words of modesty and confidence em
ployed by Francis Bacon, nearly two centuries
and a half ago, in introducing to the world his
Novum Oi-ganum Scientiarum. He was then
sixty years of age. When quite a young man,
he had been left by the death of his father, Sir
Nicholas Bacon, in circumstances which made
it necessary—to quote his own words—for lnm
“to think how to live, instead of living only to
think,” —a state of dependence often made use
of by Providence to point out who, among the
great mass of human beings, is indeed a man.
In addition to this, he was a valetudinarian. His
whole life was characterised by a constitutional
delicacy which made him shiver at every breeze,
and exposed him to peril ab every change of
weather*
But notwithstanding these adverse circum
stances, he very soon succeeded in mastering the
principles of the law, which he was induced to
adopt as a profession —rose rapidly from one
grade to another of legal preferment and dis
tinction, until finally he became Lord High
Chancellor of England, the highest dignity of a
British layman who is not of the blood royal.—
He was, consequently, privy counselor ex officio;
prolocutor or chairman of the House of Lords by
prescription; keeper of the Great Seal; and
keeper of the King's conscience. This last,
however, we may be permitted to say, was no
great matter, as his majesty seems to have had
very little conscience to keep.
It is wonderful that, iu the midst of such sur
roundings, his time and attention could have
been given to anything foreign to them; that,
loaded as he was with honors—basking in the
smiles of royalty, and courted and deferred to
by princes and noblemen—he could have taken
pleasure in the ifnxious labors of composition.
But there were great thoughts within him which
he must not, he could not suppress; thoughts
which, all his life, had been struggling to find an
adequate utterance; thoughts which had been
born in his earlier days, and which had grown
with his growth and strengthened with his
strength, till they had now come to full maturity
and demanded expression.
While, therefbre, James I. was spouting Latin
to his domestics, and wretched English to his
ministers, —while his royal soul was absorbed
in the two great purposes of his existence—the
establishment of his divine right to be a tyrant,
and the promotion of his favorite, Buckingham,
—his chancellor found leisure from the duties
of office and the blandishments of courtiers, to
put his finishing touches to the great work of
his life; and men were permitted for the first
time to turn the leaves of the New Organ of the
Sciences.
And did not the book wake up the sleeping i
dreamers of London? Did not all England clap i
its hands for joy? Was not the whole world i
drunk with excitement? Did not the stately .
dignity of Oxonian professors unbend, and allow
them to exult in their first enthusiasm? Did
not Cambridge boast that the intellectual giant
had been fed within her walls, and forget that |
he had left her. a mere boy, in disgust at her
stupidity? And oh! did not James neglect liis
Latin and his favorite, in the joy that his reign
had been signalized by such an event? .So we j
might suppose: but in fact, far otherwise was
the meritorious offering received.
The intellectual soil into which it was the fate
of Bacon to cast his seed, had become a great :
barren waste. Its strength had nearly all been
evaporated into the refined intangibilities of
Scholasticism, leaving but little residuum be
sides ethereal nonsense and impalpable folly.—
Minds characterised by the keenest acumen, the
nicest discrimination, the most patient and inde
fatigable research —influenced by that Theologi
co-Aristotilian method which was remarkable for
nothing but its impotency and its absurdity—
devoted all their time to the fabrication ot theo
ries, and to the ever-recurring labor of forcing
the facts to harmonize with them. Such was the
mighty tide of absurdity aud falsehood which
Bacon, alone and unaided, sought to arrest: a
tide whose volume had been swelled by the ac
cumulations of nearly seventeen centuries, and
whose momentum was receiving continued in- 1
crementsof force from the universities and the
church. • |
What a herculean task! A single man with :
a great thought in his heart, standing out in op- :
position to a world that bowed to authority and
that worshiped antiquity. Illustrious Samson
of philosophy! —he laid his hand upon the pil
lars of that temple whose foundations had been
laid by the Stagirite, whose walls had been built
of contributions from the East and from the West
—a temple supported by philosophy, strength
ened by science, inhabited by religion, and de
fended by the mighty powers of the dominant
hierarchy—and dashed it to the earth as in the
sport of his strength. And then, as if by the
wand of that genius which gives him so deserved
a preeminence, ho cleared away the rubbish
and the ruins, and laid broad and deep the en
during foundations of eternal truth!
But this, as we intimated above, was not im
mediately effected. Certainly there were a few
minds which at once perceived the value of his
method; but the great mass of educated society
was too deeply imbued with Scholasticism, and
too firmly wedded to Aristotle, to give in their
adhesion readily to the new philosophy; and
hence, the great work of Bacon had to be left, as
he left his name and memory, “to men’s chari
table speeches, to foreign nations, and the next 0
ayes." To his name tardy justice has at length
been done. His memory is no longer darkened
by the foul stain transferred to it from the cha
racter of an infamous and unprincipled sover
eign ; while every science in existence is a living
monument to liis method, and every new dis
covery an inscription to his fame.
It is a popular misapprehension of the Baconi
an Method, that it advocates simply Induction
as opposed to Deduction. And hence there are
not wanting those who profess to be able to see
nothing new and nothing valuable in it. We are
gravely informed that induction is but the natu
ral process of the mind, and has been used since
the world began in the investigations of phe
nomena for the discovery of truth. What right,
therefore, it is asked, lias Bacon' to the proud
title of Founder of Experimental Science ?
And even a name no less illustrious than that of
Macaulay has been lent to this position. But, as
Mr. Hallam observes, “'Those who object to the
importance of Bacon’s precepts in philosophy,
that mankind have practised many of them im
memorially, are rather confirming their utility
than taking off much from their originality, in
any fair sense of the term. Every logical me
thod is built on the common faculties of human
nature, which have been exercised since the
creation, in discerning—better or worse—truth
from falsehood, and in inferring the unknown
from the known.” And Bacon himself says,
that, “interpretation is the true and natural act
of the mind, when all obstacles are removed,”
but that “ everything will be more ready and
better fixed by our precepts.”
It is granted, then, that induction had always
been employed, but it was au induction without
method, an induction which Bacon assailed as
earnestly as he did the syllogism. And no
small part of the merit which is due to him, is
owing to the fact that he so clearly exposed the
pernicious influence of that “ induction by sim
ple enumeration ” which the world had hitherto
employed. He claims not, therefore, the dis
covery of induction, but the establishment and
illustration of the Inductive Method; a method
as different from the induction of his predeces
sors as a sound argument from a fallacy, or as
truth from falsehood; a method which begins
with the careful collection, observation and
comparison of numerous facts and instances—
which requires the mind to be held, as it were,
in abeyance, until it can perceive the real teach
ing of all the facts, and the harmonious testimo
ny of all the instances —which demands the
' sacrifice of all idola, whether of the tribe, of the
cavern, of the forum, or the market; and which
compels every circumstance to be duly consider
ed, dispassionately weighed, and impartially
received, before rising to and resting upon the.
final generalization. Such a method of induc
tion, it is needless to say, the world had not
theretofore seen practised nor known.
The ground of his opposition to the syllogism,
also, has sometimes been misunderstood. He
rejected it, not as a “ form of ratiocination, but
as a means of investigation.” He contended
that to draw conclusions from axioms received
wirheut proof, and adopted without reason, was
to multiply falsehood, and not to discover truth.
Hence, he urged that the pursuit of a cautious,
patient, and legitimate deduction, must precede
the employment of the syllogism—must furnish
the materials for its operation, by laying down
its major and minor premises as established and
certain truth, before its conclusions could be re
lied upon. liis plan was, first to establish
axioms by means of induction; and. secondly,
to apply to the conclusions»tlius reached, the
expansive and multiplying powers of deduction.
Both together constitute Baconianism ; though
the second part of his design he did not live to
execute; and hence the failure of superficial
readers to give his method the credit of embra
cing it; whereas, he distinctly affirms, “ The i
signs for the interpretation of nature compre- !
liend two divisions: the first regards the elicit- ;
ing or creating of axioms from experiment,—
the second, the deducing or deriving of new ex
periments from axioms.” (Nov. Org. B. ii., App.
10.)
Such, then, is Baconianism —not a philosophy,
but the method of philosophizing; and this
method not induction opposed to deduction, but
both combined in opposition to dogmatism. Its
value as an instrument or organ of investigation
can be best appreciated, perhaps, by calling up
before the mind a sort of panoramic view of its
wonderful achievements ; and this may lead us
subsequently into a brief inquiry into the expe
diency of a further extension of it, to depart
ments of study which have not yet been sub- j
jected to its precepts.
The difficulty in the first of these undertakings
is to know where to begin and where to leave ;
off. For what do we know of the great volume
of nature, that has not been acquired in pursu
ing the path pointed out by Bacon? The
heavens with their myriad worlds have, in this
way, been made to reveal their secrets; the
earth, with its thousand mysteries, has been laid
open to our understanding: the inscriptions up
on its strata, its rocks and its fossils, h#ve be
come as legible as the line I am writing; while
far down through the dark and surging billows
of the deep, we can read the handwriting of the j
Great Author of all. Chemistry, which conducts
us into the marvelous world of atoms: Astron
omy, which transports us to the far-off realms of
space, and enables us, in some sense, to whirl
in our hands the mighty orbs of the universe ;
Geology, which carries us back to the founda
tions of the earth, and permits us to behold the
wonderful structure while in process of building,
and to gaze upon layer after layer, as the unseen
hand of Omnipotence places them upon the su
perstructure : Botany and Zoology, which reveal
to us the phenomena and laws of the living
: plants and animals that inhabit this structure;
all these, with whatever else is known of or
ganic or inorganic nature —of the heavens above,
; or the earth beneath, or the waters under the
earth, —have been made scientific by means of
that method of interpreting nature, which we
designate Baconianism. In all these depart
ments, it has given us truth in place of conjec
! ture, law in place of theory, science in place oft
1 empiricism, and produced a harmonious uniform
! ity in place of perpetual strife and endless un
certainty. The entire array of the sciences,
therefore, with all the solidity of their established
principles, and all the clearness, simplicity and
beauty of their immovable axioms, is an abiding
monument to the truth and excellency, the im
portance and sufficiency of the Inductive Method
as advocated by Bacon, and carried out and
perfected by his successors.
We should naturally infer that an instrument
which had proved itself to be so useful and re
liable—one that had succeeded in dissipating
the darkness which, for so many ages, enveloped
the whole creation in mystery—and that has
lighted up all the material universe as with a
blaze of glory—would have been eagerly sought
after and unhesitatingly adopted by students in
every department of inquiry. But so far is this
from being the case, that several important sub
jects of investigation have never yet been
thoroughly subjected to even the most obvious
principles of the inductive method; or if they
have, that method has been pursued simulta
-1 neously with others of a heterogeneous character,
which have neutralized its influence, and left the
general result such as it would have been, if in
duction had not been employed at all. This is
evident from the present state of those sciences.
Politics, for example, or the science of govern
ment, so far from being as it might be, an in
ductive science, resting upon indisputable postu
lates, and built up of the solidest axioms of
common sense, is now, at the end of six thous
and years of experiment and observation, a
problem whose solutions are as various and di
verse as are the tastes auu prejudices of thoso
whose attention is directed to it. In other
words, it is still in that inchoate stage of forma
tion —the period ol hypothesis and counter
hypothesis, in which scarcely anything is settled,
and in which almost everything must be tried
before its workings can be known, —a sort of
unsound or diseased condition which every po
litical empiric is prepared to doctor, and for
which every hustings orator is ready to prescribe.
What it lacks is the settlement of certain great
and simple principles, (comparable, for instance,
to the doctrine of gravitation.) of sufficient gen
erality to embrace every special case and every
peculiar modification. Such generalizations can
only be reached when philosophical statesmen
(not stump orators) shall be fotmd, who, rising
superior to the dicta of party, and the perverting
influence of local and personal imprests, will
patiently collect, calmly compare, and dispassion
ately classify all the numerous facts which enter
as constituent elements iuto the inquiry, and
who will give to every circumstance its natural
influence and legitimate force. In other words,
to be a science , it must not exhibit simply a col
lection of unclassified facts—the facts have al
ready been collected—but must furnish us with
a sound and verified induction of general lavs
from those facts.
Jurisprudence is considerably in advance of
other sciences pertaining to social life; and has,
perhaps, attained to as high a degree of perfec
tion as is possible, while the errors of political
science upon which it depends, remain uncor
rected. One deficiency, however, maybe men
tioned, which includes all, and that is its
uncertainty. Knowledge becomes scientific
when it enables one to prodict. The astronomer
predicts an eclipse of the sun or the moon, or
the occultatiou of a planet, and it comes to pass
to the minute; the geologist takes a single bone
of an animal, and describes to you accurately
the whole skeleton, and when long afterwards
this skeleton is found, deep buried in the earth,
it corresponds precisely with his description.—
But what jurist can predict, with anything ap
proximating certainty, the result of a suit at law ?
, It is the very synonym of that which is preca
rious and doubtful; and applies not only to the
verdicts of petit juries, but to points of law
argued before the courts.
The same is true of Medicine. The most
1 learned physician can not tell the effect of his
1 prescriptions, nor the issue of his cases. To a
most fearful extent he works in the dark; making
every case an experiment, and giving every dose
to see what will be the effect. I grant that in
the most ordinary cases he can approximate to
accuracy in his predictions, but in all those of a
complicated or malignant character, ho must
feel that his science is wanting, either in the re
liability of the diagnosis it enables him to make,
or in the sufficiency of the materia medico it
furnishes. And 1 opine, with all my respect for
the regular profession, that it is this very defi
ciency which they have not hitherto been able
to supply, that has given birth and patronage to
so many new schools, and to such multitudes of
branded charlatans.
Every one must admit, that, considering the
unparalleled facilities afforded for its study, and
the momentous importance of the interests in
volved, medical science has not attained to that
degree of perfection which should satisfy the
reasonable expectations of an enlightened com
munity. The reason evidently is, that no class
of men are so bound by authorities, or so con
fined within the limits prescribed by their re
spective schools. It is time that the profession
had freed itself from these marks of a vain and
exploded philosophy, and had begun in good
earnest to originate from the living facts which
are daily before them, an inductive science, to
the administration of whoso simple principles
and accurate laws we might confidently submit
our own and our families’ lives.
Thus it is with two of the learned professions;
how is it with the third and most important of
all ? A few remarks on this will conclude the
present paper. And surely, where interests as
momentous as heaven and eternity are involved,
nothing has been neglected which could con
tribute to the most unquestionable certainty!—
Surely those upon whom rests the responsibility
of making known to men the icords of eternal
life , have laid aside all prejudice, aud risen above
the debasing and contracting influences of party,
and have candidly studied the Holy Bible ac
cording to the only method which ever did or
ever can result in undoubted truth! Would
that it were so! Would that a profession made
forever honorable and sacred by numbering in
its ranks the Master and his Apostles, might be
exonerated from the charge of empiricism, and
the resort to vague theories, questionable au
thorities, and barbarous terminology. But facts
will not yield to the wishes of charity. No
thing, in all the range of studies or investiga
tions, is so hopelessly uncertain as the interpre
tation of God's own Word. Nowhere are there
differences so antagonistic, and discrepancies so *
glaring. The Law is uncertain in some of its
applications, but its great principles are fixed;
Medicine is wanting in that uniformity and
agreement among its votaries that is always
commanded by a true science, but its schools
are not hopelessly numerous; —Hermeneutics
alone has failed to secure one single attribute of
a science, and has left every man to receive his
theology from the fathers, ancient or modem, or
to guess at the meaning of Scripture upon the
impulse of his passions or his prejudices.
And shall it ever be so ? Shall the strength
of partisan prejudice, and the reverence for
partisan creeds, forever prevent the enlightened
wisdom of Christendom from seeing and declaring
the true meaning of God’s word—not with the
authority of councils, nor the prestige of royal
favor—but with the higher authority of common
sense, and the stronger charm of undoubted
truth? Amid all the conflicts of opposing
creeds and antagonistic churches, shall the
simple-minded lover of the Bible never be
guided to its meaning, and never learn its doc
trine? Let us hope for better things. The
method of induction which found the students of
God’s other volume in this same condition, has
led them away from their theories, and sunk
into oblivion their baseless philosophies—while
it has reared up in their place the magnificent
temples of everlasting Truth. In these every
votary dwells in concord, and every student en
ters with delight. No jarring discords mar the
harmony of their voices, and no baseless theo
ries put strange fire upon their altars. All is
peace and union, every thing is sure and stable,
because facts and facts alone are the foundation
upon which it is built.
The same method, applied with the same hon
esty and fidelity to the communications of
Scripture, would produce corresponding results.
Partyism would expire as if by its ow r n limita
tion ; envy and rivalry would be left behind in
the eager and enthusiastic pursuit of truth; and
while the worship of true and united hearts
ascended to the Throne above, the whole earth
would resound with the exclamation of David:
“Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for
brethren to dwell together in unity! It is like
the precious ointment upon the head, that ran
down upon the beard, even Aaron’s beard, that
went down to the skirts of his garments; as
the dew of Hermon, and as the dew that de
scended upon the mountains of Zion: for there
the Lord commanded the blessing, even life for
evermore! "
—ls, in this rapid sketch of Bacon and Ba
coniauism, with what it has done and what it
must yet do, I have succeeded in inspiring even
one reader with a resolution to be a man in all
the dignity of freedom and independence, and
to exert his manhood in helping to carry forward
the great work of human enlightenment and
progress which is now but cleverly begun, I
shall feel abundantly compensated for the labor
and pains of its composition.
—
Truths for Wives. —ln domestic happiness,
the wife’s influence is much greater than her
husband's: for one, the first cause mutual love
and confidence—being granted, the whole com
fort of the household depends upon trifles more
immediately under her her jurisdiction. By her
management of small sums, her husband’s res
pectability and credit are created or destroyed.
No fortune can stand the constant leakages of
extravagances and mismanagement; and more
is spent in trifles than women would easily be
lieve. The one great expense, whatever it may
be, is turned over and carefully reflected on ere
incurred; the income is prepared to meet it; but
it is pennies imperceptibly sliding away which
do the mischief; and this the wife alone can stop
for it does not come within a man’s province.
There is often an unsuspected trifle to be saved
in every household. It is not in economy alone
that the wife’s attention is so necessary, but in
those niceties which make a well-regulated house.
An unfurnished cruet-stand, a missing key, a
buttonless shirt, a soiled table-cloth, a mustard
pot wtth its contents sticking hard and brown
about It are severally nothings; but each can
raise an angry word or cause discomfort. De
pend on it, there’s a great deal of domestic hap
piness in a well dressed mutton chop or a tidy
breakfast table. Men grow sated of beauty, tir
ed of music, are often too weared for conversa
tion, —(however intellectual;) but they can al
ways appreciate a wellswept hearth and smiling
comfort. A woman may love her husband de
votedly—may sacrifice fortune, friends, family,
country, for him—she may have the genins of a
Sappho; but—melancholy fact—if with these she
fails to make his home comfortable, his heart will
inevitably escape her. And women live so en
tirely in the affections that without love their ex
istence is a void. Better submit, then, to house
hold tasks, however repugnant they may be to
your tastes, than doom yourself to a loveless
home. Women of a higher order of mind will
not run this risk; they know that their feminine,
heir domestic, are their first duties.
—i
“ Carrying the War into Africa.” —ln one
of the famous wars between Carthage and Rome
about two thousand five hundred years ago,
Hannibal, the Carthagenian leader, and one of
the most wonderful men of antiquity, led his ar
my into Italy, and for several years continued
to threaten the city and lay waste the surround
ing country. Seipio, a Roman General, saw the
necessity of getting rid of Hannibal and _ his
forces. So he determined to lead an army into
Africa, and threaten Carthage; and thus make
it necessary for Hannibal to return home for its
defence. This sceme had the desired effect; and
in all time this retaliatiug upon an enemy, by
adopting his own tactics, is called, “ carrying the
war ilito Africa.”
—«■*»
A writer of the last century quaintly observ
ed that when the cannons of the princes began
war, the canons of the church were destroyed. —
It was, said he, first mitre that governed the
world, and then nitre—first Saint Peter, and
then saltpetre.