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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.