and accepted the call to become their minister. He came, accompanied by his sister, Emily HWith them, in happier days, I had passed much of my time, while her brother was my father's pupil, and whom I had long ardently loved; nor was my passion unrequited. Upon their arrival in the village they called upon my mother, and proposed, if it should be agreeable to her, to become inmates of the cottage. This proposal she gladly accepted, for the small sum which he would be able to pay, added to our scanty allowance, would again enable us to procure those comforts which were absolutely indispensable to my mother's declining health and strength. To my unspeakable joy, a few days saw our new companions domesticated at our fireside, and the cottage again became the Parsonage. Their society seemed to impart new health to my mother's feeble frame, and in Emily my sister had found not only a friend, but an able and willing assistant in her attendance upon my remaining parent. I had renewed my suspended acquaintance also with Emily, and found that my presence was as welcome to her as it had been in former days. Two years passed in this happy manner, and each day found the inmates of the cottage more and more endeared to each other. My occupation kept me constantly employed throughout the day, but scarcely had the sun set ere I was by the side of my sister and her friend. The time was near at hand that would free me from my apprenticeship; then I should be enabled to commence life for myself, and it was understood in the family that as soon as the produce of my labor should put me in possession of $500, Emily was to become mine with the full consent of her brother and the sanction of my mother. To accelerate this much longed for and happy hour, though against the wishes of my friends, I removed to the City of New York, anticipating in that wider field more certain and more lucrative employment than I could expect in my native village. Nor was I disappointed. Master of my trade, I soon found employment there so profitable, that by the following spring I expected to be the possessor of the desired amount. I had never suffered more than a fortnight to elapse during the summer and autumn without passing a day at my native place, and each visit seemed to unite us more closely to each other. Knowing that the severity of the winter must necessarily interrupt these periodical visits, I urged Emily to consent to our immediate union. Would to Heaven she had yielded to my importunity! but she was averse to taking the step, and her brother, whom she consulted on the subject, also disapproved of it, alleging as a reason that by the spring I should be more firmly established in my business, and Emily laughingly said, that she wished to test the strength of my affection. With

a heavy heart I bade them farewell, having previously obtained a promise that I should every week receive a letter from home. The promise was faithfully kept, for regularly the Tuesday's mail brought a letter from Emily, filled with all that delightful ⚫ chit chat which a woman only knows how to write, and which is so agreeable to a lover's eye and heart. These letters were no less regularly answered, for my pleasantest recreation at that time consisted in the innocent enjoyment of perusing and reperusing her epistles, and in replying to them. This continued until the month of January, at which time the weather became so unusually mild for the season, that a steamer was advertised to start for N———————, distant only about twenty miles from my home. The opportunity was not to be neglected, and accompanied by one of my fellow workmen, I started for the landing. On reaching the wharf we found that the boat had started a few minutes before. Alas! my friend, what tremendous consequences were involved in the delay of these few minutes. Sad and disappointed we strolled along toward the residence of my companion, and on arriving at his door I accepted his invitation to stay and sup with him. He had noticed my dejected countenance, and by way of diverting my melancholy thoughts, he proposed that we should look in at one of the theatres in the neighborhood. For the first time in my life I witnessed a dramatic performance, and I need not assure you how delighted I was at the mimic representation. The melancholy feelings with which I had entered the doors of that temple of pleasure had entirely vanished, and the proposal of my friend to join a supper party was most willingly assented to by me.'

Williams had proceeded thus far in his narration, when the breeze, which had been for some time gradually freshening, had now increased so much that it was considered necessary to shorten sail. The first mate, whose watch it was, accordingly gave orders to that effect, and Williams, merely stopping long enough to assure me that he would resume his story on the following evening, sprang up the main rigging, and I saw no more of him for that night. I soon after betook myself to my berth.

[END OF THE FIRST PART.]

H. H.

THE FLOWER'S LESSON.

"I will be as the dew."-HoSEA.

I saw in the vale a fragile flower
Lift up its delicate head:

And 'round the path of the morning hour,
The breath of its perfume shed

And thither the bright winged insect flew,
The sweets of its cup to sip,

Or to kiss off the drops of sparkling dew
That hung on its rosy lip.

But the summer's sun arose in its might,
And that flower drooped its head;
And pale grew the petals, before so bright,
As it sunk on its grassy bed.

And all of that bright and youthful throng,
Who had joined at early day,

In the giddy dance and the merry song,
Flew from that flower away.

So lonely it lay on the valley's breast,
With its leaflets all faded and sear;
With no kind attendant to pillow its rest,
Or to shed o'er its sorrows a tear.

But at eve, as I turned again to the place,
That withered flower to view,

A sunbeam smiled o'er its freshened face,
More bright than its morning hue.

And sweeter far was the zephyr's song,
That wafted its fragrance at night,
Than the merry shout of the faithless throng,
Who had danced in the morning light.

Its fragrant petals aside I drew,

As its head raised calmly up;

And sparkling drops of the evening dew,

Fell from its odorous cup.

"Tis thus, when the joys of our folly depart,
And the ties of false friendship are riven,
The dew drops of mercy fall soft on the heart,
And it blooms with the flowers of Heaven.

H. J. V.

METAPHYSICS.

The body knows no sympathy,

That's the proud privilege of the MIND.
'Tis like a living spark that's hid
Beneath an alabaster lid.

LUIS DE CAMOES.

ALTHOUGH at the bare mention of this formidable term one asks instinctively, Can these dry bones live? still, despite the known and often expressed opinion of the Reading Public, we venture to offer something very like a defense of Metaphysical science. Not, indeed, of a certain gigantic phantom, clad in the dusky drapery of German nomenclature, but as it really exists. The "New Lights" of the nineteenth century would have us believe that truth can never gain admittance to the mind, unless she approaches disguised by the trappings of an uncouth phraseology. Ideas simple and easily recognized under their ordinary forms, now flourish as new discoveries-proofs of analytical acuteness-landmarks for coming generations. At present, if a writer wishes to give a few hints concerning the origin of thought, or merely indicate the primary powers of the mind, he commences, "Let us now institute an inquiry into the origin of the subjective Primitive." Does he believe in the evidence of Consciousness, he has a "Conscious Cognition" of the fact; would he point you to an emblem of eternity, "behold," cries he, "a fit representation of the illimitable Infinite." We would not detract a tythe from the merited reputation of the true Pioneer; but why, in the name of all that is rational, need we, by imitating the faults and absurdities of a favorite author, leave the pure, native pearl to slumber undisturbed, while we gather with pious care into our cabinets, the rough and unsightly shell? The prejudice, arising from this circumstance, is not in itself unjust, but embraces too wide a circle, blindly disregarding the difference between mere adventitious appearances, and what pertains to the true character of the subject.

Metaphysics, in reality is, and ever ought to be, an exposition of the nature and operations of the human mind, and as such, has in every age commanded the most earnest attention. Open at random the volume of the Past, a continual recurrence of the same questions and the same solutions, offers convincing evidence of some deep-rooted inquisitiveness-some universal longing in the heart of man to understand his spiritual Nature. Accordingly, we find India and Greece, Germany and France, have each acknowledged three systems of Philosophy; present

ing, too, in their first principles, a most remarkable degree of similarity. Each sought in these an explanation of the doubts which ever beset the inquirer at the very outset of his meditations. Here we discover the first philosophical corruption of primitive Revelation. These systems are, first, a belief in the self-existent energy of Nature, and of Thought or Intelligence: next, a belief in that of Intelligence alone-a theory strikingly analogous to that of Berkely, and one involving the sublime error, that the "chief good" lay in a complete abstraction from all things outward and visible, and thus, at last, attaining to a state of Deity; for, as they argued, God was thought: and finally, a belief in the existence of a self-active Nature only; in other words, that the inherent activity of matter was the sole cause, not merely of our own being, but also of those surprising phenomena, which, by their constant recurrence, have almost failed to attract the slightest attention. It is not now requisite to trace the various effects of these several systems; nor must it be inferred that we here possess the clue to every speculation that has ever perplexed the brain of Man; but whatever other de-. ductions may be drawn from this remarkable coincidence, it certainly exhibits, in a most striking aspect, the natural tendency of thought, under every variety of circumstance and condition. The cause must reside in the structure of the Mind itself: the secret lies in the restless desire of Man to resolve his destiny; and its ultimate satisfaction has so racked his reason, that in. these latter days, the voice of despair, ascending from an intelligent, though misguided people, has been heard to exclaim, "there is no truth save one; Death is a never-ending sleep."

Bare precept affords no quiet to the soul; it must have knowledge. The fall of every Religion that debars investigation, has been decreed; for it wars against the first principles of our nature-confidence in the fundamental laws of human belief. This ground must be admitted, prior to all argument; for upon it all argument is ultimately based; and without this admission, the slightest progress is wholly impracticable. So firmly do we retain this idea, that whatever is contrary to their dictates, we feel convinced must be false, not only in this world, but throughout the intelligent universe: else what meaning can we attach to that oft-repeated sentiment-whatever is contrary to reason, is impossible? It is upon this assurance that all human philosophy rests. "Error, to be permanent, must be combined with truth." And it is through the belief induced by partial examination by an examination of the fair side alone, that we cling to it with such tenacity.

What joy is felt by the soul as it unfolds the operations of its own immortal nature! All that is outward is transient as