2

THE MIRROR.

EGOTISM.

IT was remarked, by a celebrated reviewer, of a certain writer, that his mind seemed constructed to view small things as great and great things as small.

This is the legitimate result of egotism. By one who is under its debasing influence, things which pertain to self are magnified to an undue importance, while those objects which do not pertain directly thither, however great and noble, dwindle into comparative nothingness.

This narrowness of mind and illiberality of sentiment produced by estimating self too high, may be seen in all the walks and pursuits of life.

Take, for example, the man who has successfully devoted himself for a long time to a particular line of business, and whose mind has not been enlarged in proportion to his purse, he will begin to look with a sort of contempt upon every other occupation.

His productions, his house, his land, his domains are all prodigies of excellence, and he himself the greatest prodigy of all.

Those who may dare to differ from his opinions as to the true ends of life, and the means of pursuing them, are regarded as misguided, foolish people.

How apt is a man's pursuits or profession to stand as a false visual medium before his mental eye. The student is apt to consider all in the relation which they sustain to his favorite sciences, and to judge them by the proficiency they have made in these. The lawyer regards his fellow-men in the relation of client or no client. The physician in that of patient, the clergyman in that of church-member, the politician in that of partisan, and so with every other employment. Families even, sometimes, seem to regard all, who may not come within the narrow sphere of their familiar acquaintance, as almost barbarians.

The self-lover is unable to estimate the features of other situations than his own. He cannot conceive that men of diverse education must unavoidably see objects in various lights. He makes no allowance for circumstances or constitutional differences. He has

EGOTISM.

3

but one rule by which to judge, and that is himself. This stand-
ard he applies in all cases, and by it everything must stand or fall.

It has been truthfully remarked of Lord Byron, that the per-
sonages presented, in his writings, lack variety and fidelity from
his absorbing egotism. This led him to shape his heroes in the
mould of his own bitter and burning nature. His fierce egotism
effectually centred him upon himself, and destroyed his ability to
enter the minds of others, which was necessary in order to forcibly
conceive and truthfully depict the various modifications of human
character. The same principle holds with respect to uncharitable-
ness, which is often the result of an over-estimate of one's self.
If man could but lose sight of himself and enter into the situation
of others, and know and feel the pressure of their temptations, and
perhaps constitutional defects, how soon might not bitter con-
demnation be exchanged for lenient forbearance.

If the strong conflicts and virtuous resolutions of the erring
could be laid before his eye, and that eye turn with impartial jus-
tice to the page of his own heart, and read there the records of
his own weakness and guilt, how readily might he recognize the
object of his critical censure for a brother, and learn to regard
him with the tenderness of fraternal sympathy.

Another result of egotism, when carried to excess, is weakness,
or superficiality of mind. Having produced and confirmed the
habit of viewing things only upon one side, it at length destroys
the capacity of conceiving things as they really are. The mind
loses truthfulness of perception, and breadth and depth of thought,
shallowness and weakness ensue, until at length it comes to feel no
interest only in matters of the most immediate concern.

The future, the glorious future, pregnant with mighty truths,
with momentous events, with vast objects, with wide and solemn
light, without limit or end, becomes an immense stagnant sea lying
in dead barrenness over the dreary expanse of eternity. The pre-
sent, with its petty interests, its paltry rivalries, its sordid cares
and fleeting pleasures, has won the bright inheritance of the soul
with a worthless mess of pottage.

The debasing influence of self-aggrandizement extends to all the
great and thrilling truths which pertain to the soul. The effect of

4

THE MIRROR.

their speculative grandeur to expand and ennoble it, is lost, and
they virtually become the contracted things which they would be,
if they possessed no other relations than those in which they are
regarded.

Self, also, is the great antagonist to all spiritual freedom and
elevation, not when it is kept within its humble and lawful bounds,
but when it grows into a pervading egotism, and becomes the
point to which everything is made to tend and have reference.

Like the false system of Astronomy, which made the earth the
centre of the solar system, and the sun, and planets, and starry
firmament to revolve around it, so egotism makes Self the great
centre around which all things are made to revolve.

The true Copernican system of philosophy, representing the earth
as but a subordinate unit in the mighty host of heaven, changing it
from a vital centre to a mere satellite and recipient of the sun,
while reducing it to its proper station in the material scale, does
not rob it of its real dignity and just importance.

In like manner Self suffers no degradation when it is removed
from a false to a true position. Its place is determined in the
natural order of things, and there it must dwell and act or the
immutable law of harmony is broken, and confusion, and error,
and darkness must follow. In consideration of the remedies of
this great evil, let it be remarked that the contemplation of all
wide and general truths tends to oppose the effects of self-aggran-
dizement, as well as to give breadth and fidelity to the views of the
mind.

The earnest pursuit of knowledge, and the deep contemplation
of nature, in all her forms, are evidently disinterested, and must
naturally exercise and strengthen the capacity of perceiving objects
in their full relations, and upon every side.

The Astronomer who reads, with searching eyes, letters of light,
which the finger of God has written, on the broad page of the
heavens, is absorbed in his elevating task. The vast and noble
thoughts which fill and delight his mind effectually withdraw his
attention from the little sphere in which he lives and acts. The
petty narrow things around and within him, sleep in unconscious
nothingness, while the glowing intellect ponders and evolves the

EGOTISM.

5

deep calculations which form its pathway through the abyss of
time and space.

So, in short, with every investigator of general and absolute
truth. The mind in every such exercise is carried out of itself,
and loses perforce its paltry egotism amidst great and immutable
facts.

The peculiarly powerful counteraction afforded by Christianity
to this class of evils, under consideration, arises from its unfolding
to the view great beings, as well as great things, and greater beings
and things than are offered to the mind in any other department of
truth.

If the objects which meet the senses in this world, are capable
by the systematic study of their laws and properties to invigorate
and enlarge the capacity, how much more effectual must be the
same influence, imparted by things which pertain to eternity.
Thought is carried beyond the bounds of time and matter, beyond
all that ends and all that perishes, to a state of exalted and immu-
table grandeur.

The beauty which is of holiness, and the sublimity of mighty
things, come over the spirit like a trance of solemn delight, en-
chaining it and thrilling it with deep rapt joy. Eternity sleeps in
the silence and awe of its vastness, pregnant with the voiceless
secrets of an immemorial history. Beyond these overwhelming
scenes thought rises still higher to the contemplation of the mighty
and infinite Being whose way is in the sea, and whose footsteps
are unknown.

In that inaccessible glory and majesty, in that wide beauty and
grandeur, in that depth of wisdom, and power, and love, the ener-
gies of thought may find their fullest and highest enjoyment and
employment forever.

6

THE MIRROR.

LOVE OF TRUTH.

"When we have hoped, sought, striven, lost our aim,
Then the truth fronts us, beaming out of darkness
Like a white brow through its o'ershadowing hair."

FESTUS.

TRUTH ever forms a contrast with the false, and for this reason men love it. Truth is pure, and holy, and beautiful; nay, it is purity, and holiness, and beauty, and men love it because they love purity, and holiness, and beauty.

The love of truth is innate in man. The tender infant who can just arrange its thoughts in words, can, by a certain sort of instinct, distinguish between the true and the false, and while he shrinks back from one who has tried to deceive him, will cling with his earnest, loving heart, to that one who makes himself worthy of such love by always being truthful. No man is so utterly lost to all that is good that he does not love truth better than falsehood.

When men are surrounded by fearful dangers, and hope itself seems lost, they wish to know the simple truth, and prepare to meet it.

It makes men braver and nobler to know the truth. He who struggles against misfortune or he who fights the battle of life, never knows his own heart until he knows the truth; and he who contends with the destroying angel, and who, though feeling his frame weakened and wasted day by day in the contest, still wavers between hope and despair, when he knows the truth, and knows that he must yield, feels stronger in himself and meets death with a manlier heart.

Men love truth for its simplicity. We do, indeed, find it hid among the roots and rocks of dead tongues, and, as bright pearls lie on the bottom of the sea, so we sometimes find it wrapped in garments of which only skilful science and art can divest it; but the truth itself is simple, and though the philosopher may spend years in reasoning, the alchemist employ time and money over his retort and crucible, and the astronomer devote long nights to watching the grand, majestic march of the stars, yet did they not feel

LOVE OF TRUTH.

7

that beneath all was found a law of simple truth, they would find
no pleasure in their life; and though they may seem to enjoy each
effort they make, yet it is the truth, and that alone, which gives
them satisfaction.

The voice of nature, in all its melody and beauty, is pre-emi-
nently a voice of truth. The birds, the brooks, the wind in its
gentle breezes and angry storms, the ocean, the stars, all speak a
language of truth to the spirit of man, and when the spirit listens
and heeds, it is never deceived.

It is truth clad in robes of beauty which makes poetry so much
admired and loved by the refined mind; the strong arm of truth
which gives argument or essay its power, and the truthfulness to
nature and to our own hearts which makes true fiction, if it may be
so called, attractive.

But then besides these natural truths which are so self-evident
that we feel them, there are great, giant truths, which come to us
borne along in the march of thought, and which our minds grasp
and retain with eager joy. They are in us like seeds, and they
spring up in the fields of intellect like strong, noble, and majestic
trees, in whose shade we love to sit, weaving garlands with its
leaves, and hanging hopes upon its branches.

There are truths which have lived since creation, and which have
floated down the ocean of time from the dim past, and which go
about like ministering angels, impressing themselves upon the minds
of men until they realize them as truths, and which will continue
to live and fulfil their mission through all coming years.

There are truths which go about to meet error; and in the con-
test, truth is always victorious. It is mighty to conquer, and wil-
ing or unwilling, man must meet it, and must at last yield to it.

Before it doubts are vanquished and dreams fly away as dews in
sunlight.

We may for a time be amused or interested by strong unreal
ideas; but that which makes the most lasting impression upon us,
and which we read with the most satisfaction, is truth, such as we
feel our own hearts respond to. God's word is truth; pure, sim-
ple, noble, God-like and God-given truth.

We love to hear truth. It may seem plain and rough, but if we

8

THE STREAM OF LIFE.

know it is truth we love to listen to it, even though we may not heed it. It is eloquence, and so true is this, that there can be no eloquence without it. We call not that man eloquent who speaks to us in strange, wild, fanciful language, which has no counterpart in reality; but he who speaks truth in simple, choice words, and speaks it so that we cannot fail to discern that it is truth, is eloquent.

It is a great truth that God is truth—so true is it, that we sometimes shrink back from reading the awful truth. But though we may turn from it, and try to close our eyes to the fact—God is Truth.

And after all, we would not have it otherwise. We love to feel that over all the vast universe which is speaking of truth, presides one who is Truth itself. It is a sweet comfort to man to know that he is the creation of truth; and it gives us higher, nobler views of ourselves to feel that God in whose image we are made, is Truth. It makes the present happier, the future brighter, to know that in all, through all, and over all, there is one great Truth. All other truths seem lost in this one, so high, so deep, so true.

If then God is Truth, the highest aim that man can have is Truth, and

> "No soul can soar too loftily whose aim
> Is God-given truth and brother-love to man."

## THE STREAM OF LIFE.

A PLAYING lad ran down a mountain side;
With gladness wild
The happy child

Passed on; his heart with grief had never sighed.
From the mountain
Sprang a fountain;

E'en pure as crystal was the limpid stream;
And as it flowed
The lad's cheek glowed
With rapture; yet how soon dispelled joy's dream!

THE STREAM OF LIFE.

9

"Whither, sweet fountain, do thy waters flow?"

Thus spake the child

In accents mild,

As he lay down upon the sward below,

Watching the spray

In the sun's ray,

Of the clear, shining drops cast all around,

Like diamonds thrown,

Or pearlets strewn,

Richly o'erspreading the dark, emerald ground.

The breeze was hushed; the very leaves were mute;

Not even a bird

Within them stirred, —

When, lo! a voice, soft as a mellow flute,

Breathed forth in sighs

Mild symphonies,

Which stole upon the senses of the child;

His quivering breath

Came calm as death, —

When thus the fountain spake in accents mild: —

"As thou art, so am I — of earth;

Who caused thy being, gave me birth;

I've flowed, aye, for these countless years

Amidst a vale of human tears;

From me great rivers trace their source;

To the mighty sea my waters course;

And much of storm, wreck, death, I ween,

Hath passed midst my once calming stream;

And so life's changes, child, will be

To thee a dark, tempestuous sea;

Youth is the fountain-spring of life,

That rushes to the sea of strife;

• When manhood comes thou'lt sadly know

Whither thy life's sweet waters flow."

Then all was silent save the flowing sound

The waters made;

A transient shade

2

10

THE MIRROR.

Flushed o'er the spirit of the child,— who felt
(He knew not why,)

A deep-drawn sigh

Flow from the soul; the pang soon fled away,
'Midst breathing smiles,
E'en such sweet guiles

As sunbeams lighting up an April day.

Onward he hastened in his merry path,
Unheeding he
Of destiny,

And those dark, cankering ills which sorrow hath
Garnered for man
Through life's brief span;

Away, away the lovely, mirthful boy
Danced o'er the flowers;
Time's precious hours

With him passed priceless by, without alloy.

Years merged into the nothingness of time;
The golden hair
And beauty fair

Of the sweet child, were gone; for many a clime
Had preyed upon
The loved one; and

He had seen raging war, famine and plague,
Pass through the land,—
A ghastly band;

At length his mind became a chaos—vague.

Near the gray ruin of a fountain stood,
Palsied and wan,
An aged man,

Stricken in soul,— yet in no sullen mood;
"Fountain," said he,
"With truth to me

Didst thou presage my future lot of strife;
Yet, see,— thy tide
Is nearly dried;

Thou'lt ever cease;—mine is immortal life."

EVENING TEACHINGS.

11

EVENING TEACHINGS.

NIGHT, with her train of shadows, gathers about us, while we are enjoying the ravishing splendors of the monarch of day, in his occidental glory, as he “hastes to his couch of saffron hue.” The full-orbed moon enters in graceful, unassuming majesty upon her pathway through the skies. The untiring cycles of time have added the day with all its scenes to the returnless past, and although it so recently was with us, and we called it our own, yet it has passed on in triumphal course, regardless of our desire for its retention, having performed its mission for us in measuring another length of advancement on the turnpike of life; and though its stay with us was brief, it parts from us with the assurance, as if in compensation, that it will meet with us again, when that turnpike shall have been all trodden, then to re-present its scenes by the prism of eternity.

And now the calmness of the evening hour comes upon the soul, as the melodies of Eastern minstrels, with its sacred, subduing charms, quelling the strife of thought and passion, and proffering to every willing listener and student, the instructions of her ten thousand voices. A voice from the illumined heavens calls the student of nature's laws to observe the unerring precision of the triumphal march of all her bodies, retained in their pathways and whirled in their orbits by centripetal and centrifugal forces. Here is an exhaustless field which claims for itself a full range for mental energies and absorption; and the world makes constant pilgrimage to the monuments of their achievements, who have entered this department and borne away the laurels of successful study.

The night is the counterpart of the day, and also its opposite. So is it, that in every department of human life, those elements which stand forth as opposites, are essentially connected, and merge into each other as the varying sounds of a true musical instrument merge into one harmonious measure. Thus the day and the night are emblematic of the contrasts of life's pathway, and yet of its harmonies; for, even as night follows the dying day, so in our course, the scenes of joy and of sorrow are so closely contiguous

12

THE MIRROR.

that but a brief step may pass us from the height of joy to the
depth of sorrow, yet all under one supervision, and made as har-
monious components of an essential whole. He who is the Author
of the fierce tornado which devastates the sea and the land, and
brings horror and dismay to the hearts of seamen and landsmen, is
alike the Author of the tranquil zephyr of the Summer evening,
which charms our ear with the strains of the Æolian harp. The
same zephyr which bears the most welcomed and endeared of earth-
ly voices to our ears, may bear to our vitals the contagious miasma
of the pestilence, to consign us in a day or an hour to the slumber
of the charnel-house. But, if these precious teachings are treas-
ured, when life's sun for us shall decline, then will heaven's rising
glory bring light from the darkness of earth, even as the gases and
vapors of earth when gathered above it, being permeated by the
sun's rays, yield the corruscating beauties of the upper depths. So,
when life's days and nights are ended, the consecrated spirit,—

The spark that shines, the jewelled soul,
The casement cast away,
Shall mingle with the perfect whole,
That forms God's brightest day.

NATURE'S INSPIRATION OF GENIUS.

NATURE is God's ideal beauty, incarnate. In all of her varied
departments,—the vales, meadows, ravines and mountains,—the
rills, brooks and oceans, and the measureless expanse of the upper
deep,—there are supplies for every sense of the loving presence of
beauty. These all flow into the soul, bearing upon their calm sur-
face the imaged-spirit, the faithful portraiture of the elect attribute
of Him, whose nature and whose name is Love.

The generic application of the term "genius," was in reference
to the peculiar structure of mind received from nature. The mo-
dern application of it is, by an eminent lexicographer, referred to

13

one endowed with uncommon power of intellect and strength of
mind. But among many there is a very vague and erratic con-
ception of genius, in the application of the term to one who is a
subject of wayward eccentricities and cometary semblances. They
know not that it is in the interior and unsearchable life, in those
flowings of the highest ranges of mental power in the midst of
the most glowing and disciplining raptures,—the constant poising
of a firm and daring wing, amid whirling elements and warring
splendors, whose forms, as glittering and swiftly-driven shafts, fly
in the heaven of imagination. Thus does mental philosophy crown
the inclination to a penetrative and profound communion with the
indwelling spirit of nature, as a distinctive prerogative of genius.
This element inspires all such communion with nature,—this com-
union which penetrates far within the form, how attractive soever
the form may be, and discerns the spirit in all forms,—hearing its
deepest, holiest voices, and interpreting all their hidden meanings.
The examples of consecrate communion with the spirit within and
the spirit without, are but here and there, while their influence
and blessing are everywhere.

The highest worth of a fountain, though it flow never so purely,
is to many discovered in the accidents of its banks, affording forces
for mill-wheels. Flowers, adorned by the sun, gemmed by the
radiance of heaven's pearls, and won to their slumber by the cir-
cumambient air, which is made redolent with their grateful offering
of incense to their Author,—these, in the estimation of many, are
chiefly to be valued for the sense-subduing odors which their leaves
constrainedly yield, as their dying bequest, to the laces, silks and
satins of females, or for the expressed, distilled, exquisite drop,
tortured out to perfume the paraphernalia of disinterested gallants.

It is sure that nature is utilitarian, and is designed so to be.
The sun fulfils his diurnal round for the light and heat of the
world, and the gases and vapors of earth are gathered above it
that they may descend in reciprocal blessings upon the earth again.
But is the sun for nothing more? Are the rains for nothing
more?

“For more, far more than this, the sun, blest orb,
Resplendent shines; for more than this the clouds

14

THE MIRROR.

Their dews distil. Each beam a message brings,—
A heaven-sent message; and each brilliant ray
Its path of glory is. Each drop that falls,
Though falling on the thirsty, waiting earth,
Or on the verdant hills or barren rocks,
Or on the mountain-spring or woodland rill,
Is as a tear, though not from sadness welled,—
A tender pledge of sympathy with life."

It is this discernment of the spirit which lives and breathes in
and inspires the form in all the ranges and provinces of nature,
that proves the living presence of genius, and attests and crowns
the subdued and trained mind. He who can translate the song of
a fountain, the cheering notes of the active bee, the language of
the rustling forest leaves, or the wind-sigh of a lonely cloud;—
he who can hold familiar intercourse with the sea, and hear the
ready and glad response of each wave, as it lifts its head, all
wreathed with diamond spray;—he who can stand in the midway
valley of mountains and learn most surely that,—

"Every mountain now hath found a tongue,"—

and hear,—

"Jura answering from her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, which call on her aloud,"—

he is an heir of genius; his mind is a home of true refinement and
a resting place of beauty.

Such are the attainments and treasures of the successful student
of nature, even while a subject of mortal impediments, and they
can render life a blessing; yet, happily for us, life is brief and
forms are fleeting, for the soul is impatient of both; the spirit, in
its brighter dreams, in its dearer hopes, and in those momentary
triumphs which are the foregatherings of its ultimate and genial
range, longs to be fully blest; now the spirit seems to droop; but it
is as the drooping of the eagle down upon its breast in the low-
lands, only that it may spread its wings for high-soaring and far-
roaming; so this province of creation will not long impede the

BACHELOR'S REVERIE.

15

spirit of genius; and, supported by the analogies of nature and
revelation, we rejoice in the belief that, in a future state of exist-
ence, it shall be the province of the consecrated spirit to traverse
forever amid the resources of the upper and outer universe, and
that all the countless treasures thereof shall contribute to its end-
less fruition.

BACHELOR'S REVERIE.

I was sitting by my window,
With the moon-light streaming in,
Streaming into every corner,
As if saying,—" What's within ?"

First it fell upon my pillow,
As it lay there all alone,
And I thought I heard it whisper,
"There should be another one."

While I pondered on the lesson
That the moon was teaching me;
Lo! it peeped into my table-
Drawer to see what it could see.

Only *notes* and *business*-letters.
(Notes upon the *bank*) were there,
And tho' some notes were of *promise*,
None were to a lady fair.

Casting a reproachful glimmer
O'er my face upon the floor;
Lo! my profile told the story,
And I wondered then no more.

For appeared a nose so monstrous,
It seemed fashioned but to *bore*;
And the nose that was reflected,
Was the very one I wore.

16

THE MIRROR.

SINGleness OF PURPOSE.

THERE is no truth better known and more forgotten, than that singleness of purpose is the only basis of success in life. The world's great men, its heroes in mind and morals, are those who have bent all their faculties, and, by the mighty force of energy and will, have forged all their attainments to some definite shape. By this singleness of purpose Luther accomplished the Reformation, Napoleon attained his dazzling fame, and Washington achieved the Revolution. Wherever history records great actions, or great reforms in social or political theories, it reveals this as the foundation and corner-stone. It is a law which governs all art, science, and philosophy; and in nature, the unity of design manifest in its infinite diversity of forms, proves that it has but one purpose—to administer to the wants of man. The absence of this principle has ever been the great cause of moral and intellectual bankruptcy. Thousands who might have arisen to eminence have failed, simply because they have had no definite aim in life. It is so much easier to “pander to the ordinary and oft-recurring wish for excitement, than to promote the rarer intuitions of beauty,” that many yield to the impulse of the moment, and never acquire a permanent fame. But truths so trite as these need no farther illustration. It is in their application to the student that we would seek to enforce their significance; for to him it is necessary, above all things else, that he ever keep the end in view. He needs to remember that study is precious only for discipline, and knowledge valuable only as the instrument of wisdom. There is an almost irresistible temptation to the student to wander at large through the fields of learning, and gather its fruits only to enjoy their acquisition, or to lay them in store for future enjoyment; while it should be his aim to make all his attainments subordinate to some fixed and determined purpose. The student also loses sight of this singleness of purpose in the use he makes of the strength acquired from study. Instead of bringing it to bear upon a direct object which he should have in view, he wastes it upon things of an ephemeral nature. It is true

FORCE IN NAMES.

17

that he may produce some immediate and temporary effect, at less expense of inward exertion, than that higher and more ideal effect which art demands; but he can never reach any pinnacle of usefulness or fame unless he directs thither his every step. God confers genius with much less limit than is commonly supposed; but mankind fail to receive from genius the intended blessings, because too often it resembles the meteor's flash, rather than the pure light of the fixed stars. The lives of too many youth are aimless, and their efforts never bless mankind, for they never reach mankind. Like inexpert archers they never take aim, and the world might sit upon their target in perfect security from being hit.

Be then our talents few or many, it is our duty to spend those few and those many talents upon some one grand object. Concentrated force conquers, while scattered fire is futile. Whether it be our ambition to acquire fame in mental exploits, or whether we are influenced by the higher motive of attaining the excellence of moral heroism in battling the hosts of wrong, we must combine the strength of our allied powers in one vast blockade, till the almost impregnable Malakoff's and Redans of ignorance and evil are overthrown and destroyed.

“THERE IS MORE FORCE IN NAMES THAN MOST MEN DREAM OF.”

“MRS. JONES Phonotypy is an unmitigated humbug,” said the Major, as he laid aside his evening paper, in which he had just read the prospectus of a new volume of the “Angla Saxun.”

“’Tis an unmitigated, uncalled for humbug. It serves our vocabulary like a harvest of grapes, pressing out its very essence and vital element, and carefully preserving the worthless skins and seeds. The word heaven, for instance — see what the upstart reformers would make of that. H-e-v-n, are all the letters their little souls can afford for one of the noblest words in the language. If I have a weakness for any language, it is for the one which my

3

18

THE MIRROR.

father and grandfather (peace to their ashes!) used before me; and when I see such a crippling and mangling of words which are associated with all in the world which I hold dear or reverence, I must say, it touches a tender spot. A word which has served a people for centuries is a sacred thing, and should not be rudely handled. Often it becomes a talisman to roll back the portals of the forgotten past, opening to us new scenes of beauty. Breathing thoughts, rich pageantries of the imagination, interminable trains of fancy, throng the dim vista, filling the soul with silent harmony, and all spoken into existence by a single word."

Here the Major sighed and stirred the glowing mass of anthra-cite in the grate, till the fiery shower of cinders had ceased, then raising his feet to the fender, he gazed earnestly at the images reflected in the broad mantel of veined Italian marble.

There is something in an elevated position of the feet, especially in a snug parlor, and before an open fire, which is peculiarly conducive to reverie. In such a position, after a good supper and two and a half cups of good *Hyson Senior*—(the Major never drank but two and a half cups except on Thanksgiving), with a boisterous north wind dashing the frozen snow against the windows with unceasing music—in such a position, I say, the flintiest old bachelor in the nation would feel a thawing at heart, and a drawing out of soul towards the realms of fancy.

It is not to be wondered at, then, that the Major, who although he *was* on the mellow side of forty, still had preserved the warmth of feeling of his younger days, and was a lover of poetry withal, should yield to these influences and be the author of the following soliloquy: —

"The phonographers would find it hard to abbreviate the word *Italy*," said he, still gazing at the beautiful marble before him. "I am glad it can't be done, for its a very suggestive word to me. 'Italy! empire of the sun; Italy, mistress of the world; Italy, birthplace of literature, I salute thee!' I see a land beyond the seas, with sunny slopes and smiling vineyards, with a horizon bounded by purple mountains, and a sky filled with clouds floating in amber light, mellow and autumnal. 'Tis a land peopled by a race passionate and ardent, whose dark eyes and mobile features,

LINES TO MY ROOM.

19

express every shade of their emotion. 'Tis the land of the poet
and the painter, of Dante and Petrarch, of Raphael and Michael
Angelo. Corinne says, in her improvisation at the Capitol — 'A god
left Olympus and sought refuge in Ausonia: the appearance of the
country brought to his mind the virtues of the Golden Age, and
man seemed there to be too happy to be supposed to be guilty.'
Seamen and dyspeptic travellers tell us of the degradation of the
Italians, but I don't wish to credit their stories; I regard the test-
timony of the god who left Olympus as far more respectable and
trust-worthy. In the Italian I see a descendant of the mighty
men of Rome; neither can I think of Rome as she is, but as she
was. 'Tis still the seven-hilled city, with its purple heavens. The
nightly guards of the Palatine still throng the courts and passages
of the palace of the Cæsars. The two laurels of peace and war
wave at the gate of Augustus. The tribune remains. The flood
of Cicero's eloquence rolls through the forum. The colosseum
echoes with the roar of wild beasts, and the clash of mortal combat.
The 'Eternal Walls' have not yet furnished building material for
shops and dwellings. The Rome of ancient days is still inviolate.

"I say, Mrs. Jones, how would you like to go to Rome? I
have labored long enough and — why! bless me! the woman is
fast asleep."

We waited some time longer, but the Major did not resume his
soliloquy, and finally concluding that he had gone, body as well as
soul, into dream-land, we went away, with a sharp pain shooting
through our head, from ear to ear — the proper consequence of
having listened for an half hour at a very frigid key-hole.

Δ. Κ. Σ.

LINES TO MY ROOM.

FRIENDS often part — why should not we,
My room? tho' charged my memory
Ever shall be with thoughts of thee,
I leave thee now for haunts all unexplored,
As the butterfly its scanty shell
Forsakes, in wide-spread fields to dwell;
I seek the world to try its golden hoard.

20

THE MIRROR.

THE FALL OF THE LEAF.

PROUD Autumn comes to crown the closing year,
For golden harvests, glorious sunsets, loved.
Wealth, beauty, peace are flowing with her tread;
Wealth, that the gentle Spring engermed for her,
In shrines of buds and leaves, and fragrant blooms,
By Summer's brightness filled; beauty more grand
Than Spring's, more brilliant e'en than Summer's waste of flowers.
And now the air is pure. The horizon vast,
Bounding the sky with its majestic curve,
Is clear and bold defined. The light-blue mist
That settles down o'er farthest landscapes verge,
Can ill obscure old Ocean flashing with the new-born day.
In arching grandeur springs the Autumn sky,
All bright and silent in its wondrous depths;
And depths so deep, expansive, and so pure,
That as we gaze far up their mystic blue,
They seem to lead the eye still on and on,
'Till it could almost think to pierce the veil
Of boundless space, or— Heaven it might be. Now,
Ere sunset glow is lost in western sky,
Through lengthening night's serenely placid noon,
And o'er the frosted fields of early morn,
The harvest moon looks down from cloudless blue,
Looks down on homes and absent ones, on joy and tears,
And floods a sleeping world in fairy light.

But Autumn brings a change, as Spring hath done,
The seasons come with life, and light, and joy;
In beauty and in brightness dies the year.
We saw the gentle Spring when Winter fled,
Pour broad a flood of verdure o'er the earth,
The forest stood, and through its sprayey depths
Grew green and gladsome in the radiance soft.
'Twas beatiful, when brooks were bounding, freed
From icy chains, and birds returning, hailed
Their homes with song, and thrilled the heart with joy,
To see the opening buds the sunlight greet.

THE FALL OF THE LEAF.

21

'Twas beautiful when Summer found the woods
One waving volume of luxuriant shade.

'Tis beautiful, 'tis touching, mournful now
To view sweet nature, stricken e'en to death
By cruel Winter's messengers of doom,
Yet don the radiant garments, rainbow-hued,
As when some bride bedecks herself in joy,
And then, with Autumn glories fading fast away
Bow her bright head and die, as dies the year.
The falling leaf speaks sadness to the heart;
Yet how much loveliness decay can bring!
The frosts of Winter touched the free, wild woods,
And instant, like the spreading blush of dawn,
A wondrous beauty thrilled their arches gray,
And wove their summer green in brilliant hues,
How strange! 'Tis e'en as though, by nature's freak,
Some mighty garden of gigantic flowers
Had sprung to cheer and deck the dying year.
O'er hill and dale of waving forest reach,
By trailing rivulet and bushy glen,
The lavish wealth of light is poured around,
And opening glories flash upon the eye.
The woods are clothed in beauty. Gorgeous dyes
Of gold and crimson, and the blended tints,
When western sky is warm with sunset glow,
All these are there, and mingles with their light
Its unscathed majesty the evergreen.

A gentle breeze sweeps by; the forest seems
One fluctuating sea of rainbow-hues,
Each leaf in quivering, flashing radiance greets
The sunlight as for very joy, — but stop!
The leaf is dying; these are but the signs,
The touching signs of sure and swift decay;
The sweeter smile of beauty just before
Its eye is closed in dim and darksome death.
The forest stood in beauty e'en as soon
As Spring's warm breath had breathed returning life,
In beauty did its leafy masses wave
Beneath the shades and glory Summer brought;
But, like some noble spirit bowed by fate,

LIVING BY DESIGN.

23

life, lays a hundred other plans, all contributing to the furtherance
of his main design; and he becomes a kind of governor over a
little world—a general of an army of troops, all of whom he orders
and marches and counter-marches, so as to contend with his foes
to the best advantage; and the result is, he wins the battle.

Indeed, every step he takes is a battle, and every thought a
victory. His hour of achievement is not listlessly postponed to
some dim future, or the scene of his triumphs transferred to some
distant clime of the imagination, but now is his time of power, and
here his place of warfare. Every day he adds to his moral cap-
ital, and becomes a hero in his closet of preparation.

Such a person has true genius which will stand the test of future
times. He has, in course of rapid formation and development,
those elements of character which lie at the basis of all true great-
ness and of all lofty achievements. He will make a place for
himself, and not have to seek one. Society will speak for him
before he is ready, and what he gains he will keep, and ascend
higher and still higher, limited only by the boundary of his natural
life.

To live by design invigorates the whole soul, fortifies against the
power of adverse influences, and is a vast economy of time. Such
a person bears on his countenance the impress of a great purpose,
and his whole being moves on under the stimulus of a great design.
He has no time for trifling, and spends no time in retracing his
steps, but he has a growing consciousness that he can do what he
has designed, and that is half of the battle.

How soon such a person can be detected in a crowd; how he
pushes his way through them; how he hurries on as under the
invisible power of some mighty charm; how he seems all written
over and suffused with the secret and lofty purpose of his life. It
requires no prophet to foresee his destiny, or to depict to admiring
friends the great and ever-widening results of his life.

THE VOICE OF NATURE.

25

THE VOICE OF NATURE

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language.

Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature's Teachings.—Bryant.

No one who has any perception of, or love for, the beautiful,
can fail to perceive in Nature a voice and "language," and that
of the most touching meaning, appealing, for audience, silently but
irresistibly to the heart itself. We are filled with awe at the
sight of the whirling and dashing waters of a mighty torrent; but
it is a mysterious power which is hidden beneath this uproar, that
we feel speaking to us in that "still small voice" that Nature is
wont to use when conversing with her admirers, it is the spray
rising gently above the tumbling waters, and grasping and em-
balming the sunbeam, that draws our wayward thoughts upward
with itself. Neither is it the hurrying storm-cloud, with its hoarse
rumblings and vivid flashings, that fills us with that indescribable
feeling, which is the sure accompaniment of a storm, but the silent
and oppressive gloom which it brings with it, and spreads over the
face of Nature, nor yet is it the roaring of the ocean on a tempest-
uous night, that pales our cheeks and stifles the beating of our
hearts, but it is the terrible stillness of the midnight hour, render-
ed more terrible by the harsh sound of the waves and whistling of
the wind, and the harrowing scenes and fearful forebodings which
these all conjure up.

The effect of a long continued companionship with Nature upon
the mind, even of the ignorant and unenlightened, can be seen
nowhere more distinctly than in the case of the first inhabitants of
our soil. We can ascribe no other origin to the strange and mys-
tic theology of the American Aborigines, than their constant asso-
ciation with Nature in its wildest but most attractive forms, this
same fact also gave birth to, and developed, that poetic element
which is so marked and prominent in their character, and which, in
some degree, is preserved in those poetical and musical names

4

26

THE MIRROR.

which still linger—as if unwilling to leave their early homes—
around the lakes and hunting grounds, their early masters were
so cruelly forced to abandon.

If, then, Nature has a voice and language, where shall we go to
feel its power? Surely not to the crowded city, where the few
trees that remain seem to murmur, as the breezes play among
their dust-coated leaves, a longing desire for their native woods
which they never more will see. No: the city is not the place
where Nature sings her sweetest songs; to hear them we must
leave the dusty streets for the sunnier, breezy country—there
and there alone can we find

> "Tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
> Sermons in stones, and good in everything."

If you would experience the eloquence of such things, speech-
less yet still speaking, look out on a wide-spreading landscape after
a copious Summer shower, and, if you have a heart susceptible of
any emotion, you cannot fail to hear, coming softly yet clearly to
you, the songs of praise which all Nature is sending up to a kind
Creator. Every feature of the landscape: the bending willow,
the sturdy pine, the winding river, even the little wild flowers that
modestly rear their heads, and dot the fields with their bright
hues—stars upon a firmament of green, all seem vocal with thanks-
giving.

A peculiarity of Nature's voice is, that all the parts which make
up the great whole have each a voice, separate and distinct as
themselves; and all these—some in the minor, some in the major
key, finally meet and blend into the mighty symphony, which they
roll upward and onward forever.

Of all these multitudinous voices, perhaps none are capable of
more modulation than those of the sea and the wind; they have a
strain for every mood, for our sad and pensive moments; the one,
by its sweet music among the pebbles of the beach, throws us into
a delicious reverie, and we wander in a dream-land of happiness
amid the witching scenes of the tropics, or the orange bowers of
sunny Italy, while the breezes load the air with the perfumes of
the East. If we are in a happy, frolicsome mood, the rippling

HOPE.

27

water will whisper in our ear wondrous fairy tales of “coral
caves beneath the waves,” and the freshening wind will play a
merry strain on Nature’s Æolian harp, the forest trees; or, if we
are weary of this, and our souls long for something terrible and
sublime, the wind will whistle fiercely around the corners of the
streets, or shriek among the bare limbs of the trees, and the cord-
age of the ships, or the hurricane will sweep along in its mad
course, tearing up and destroying everything that comes within its
giant grasp; or, the sea will dash and surge over sunken rocks
and upon jutting crags, telling us, in thunder tones, of despairing
death-struggles, of drowning mariners, and noble ships sheering
and plunging amid the towering billows, and in our terror we can
almost hear the signal guns of distress, and the shrieks of agony,
—almost see the struggling wretches and the sinking ship.

Time will not allow us to particularize, or even allude to the
many other great outlets of Nature's thoughts, which all, though
with different degrees of intensity and tenderness, influence our
characters in life. The rippling rivulet, the mighty river, the
laughing waterfall, the roaring cataract, all teach us the same
touching lesson.

Love Nature, for God has given it to you, to minister to your
happiness, and then, looking through it and above it, fix your
heart in silent adoration upon the Giver of all this beauty and
happiness upon "Nature's God."

HOPE.

WHAT is hope? A beauteous sun
Which gladdens all it shines upon;
A beacon on life's changing sea;
A star of immortality;
Source of all blessings, deep and strong;
A day-beam bursting through the storm,
A tone of melody, whose birth
Is, O!—too sweet, too pure for earth;

28

THE MIRROR.

A blossom of that radiant tree,
Whose fruits immortals only, see!
A beauty and a charm, whose power
Is seen, enjoyed and sought each hour.

THE CHARM OF THE ANTIQUE.

PREVALENT in this age-progressive is the love of novelty. The
world plods on, the contemplation of the past is lost in the turmoil
of to-day. Advancement in its career whirls on, obliterating the
past, engrossing the attention and attracting the gaze of the ex-
cited rabble. Neglected, and forgotten, in the dim and dusty
chambers of decay, lie mouldering, the grand and once imposing
vestiges of eld. And yet, to some the storied " reliques of the
olden time" hold a fascination, more potent than the flittering
baubles of the pomp and pageantry of the fleeting present. To
these, indeed, they are an absorbing volume, fraught with a wild
and thrilling charm. It is to the soul-abounding antiquary, grop-
ing his quiet path in the obscurity of labyrinthian research, patient,
enduring and zealous, that every stone in the crumbling arch and
fresco, in the neglected ruin, is legended with interest. Oblivious
of the present, he lives amid the scenes and days of yore, his exist-
ence spent in sad and mighty contemplation :—

> "Where once on golden throne the monarch lolled,
> Now, glides spectre-like to his marble home,
> Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
> The swift and silent lizard of the stones."

The zeal of the antiquary is rare, yet who has not felt, as he
gazed on some relique gilded by age, the *charm* of the antique.
Not confined, antiquity lends fascination everywhere. Gaze upon
the ruined monuments of art; open the ponderous tomes which
chronicle the deeds of old heroes; dwell upon the homely stanzas
of the early poets; look upon the reliques of the gray old past,
and, if these touch not your heart, sordid and sear indeed must be

THE SCHOLAR'S LIFE.

29

its emotions. The bustling present may excite, the achievements of to-day engross, yet, shut from the world, and closeted with the dusty, time-worn volumes, which tell of the glorious feats of “eld” —the tilt, the tourney, and the siege; and all that is brave, generous and heroic: the soul entranced and the imagination fired— feel we the charm of the antique.

## THE SCHOLAR'S LIFE.

AMONG the many scenes which form the picture of life, there are none so ineffaceably bright as those of childhood and youth.

Their influence makes the man, and when in after years they rise in retrospect before him, he will feel that his school-boy days were the happiest hours of life. Though his path be steep and beset with difficulties, the scholar has joys that others can never experience. They are not the enchantments which distance lends. The man who toils for wealth, looks forward to the time when his riches shall be gathered in for the enjoyment of his pleasures. But the scholar's joys are in his very pursuits. Knowledge with him is not an ideal conception, to be realized in the uncertain future. It is the fruit of his daily labors. Each new truth which he discovers brings with it new delights, and his mind, continually expanding, opens to receive them. He is but just entering the boundless fields of learning, and while he plucks the flowers on their borders, he is enraptured with the prospect before him.

He views the achievements of the mighty past: the revelations of science, the facts embalmed in the historic page, the lore of the classics, and the literature of every age and nation; and his soul is thrilled with joy at the thought that he can make them all his own.

Yet, the scholar's enjoyments are not those, alone, which he feels in solitude and reflection.

The attachments of youth are strengthened by sympathies of a

30

THE MIRROR.

common pursuit. The school-boy's friendship and the school-girl's
love are pure and enduring, and shed a radiance over the whole
pathway of life. Like the little child disclosing to a mother's ear
all his joys and sorrows, the scholar shares with his companions
the pleasures of success and the disappointments of defeat. For,
it needs but common experience to teach that the life of the stu-
dent is made up of defeats not less than of victories.

It is, indeed, a continual struggle, and the question is whether
he make it an unconquerable one. He should mount the "steep
where Fame's proud temple shines afar," as the ivy climbs the
mountain side, and to him who thus toils there is no such word as
fail. Genius cannot smooth his way unless there be a perfect
connection of his talents with regular and persevering industry.

The mind of the fewest abilities, if armed with a determination
to conquer, is destined for success, while, without the efforts which
knowledge demands of her votaries, there can be no progress to-
ward the realization of her pleasures. Learning can never be
reached by royal roads. The scholar must struggle. His path is
onward and upward. "Lives of great men" speak to him of the
sublimity of his labors, and the "sands of time" await to immor-
talize his foot prints. In the long years of patient striving, through
which the scholar's life is laid, he is ever cheered on by thoughts
of the future. He may feel the present joy which learning brings,
and have the proud consciousness that he is engaged in noble and
manly endeavors. But it is Hope that quickens him to action.
As with aching brow he trims his midnight lamp, he sees before
him the tablet of fame on which he would enroll his name in living
characters. He seems animated by something higher and holier
than the common aspirations of men. The same ambition which
has impelled the greatest minds of the past incites him to press
onward. The philosopher, who studied from Nature's page the
laws that govern the falling apple and the rolling planets, the poet
who sang, in blindness and old age, the grand epic of a lost para-
dise, the orator who struggled amid the wild discords of the roar-
ing ocean to bring forth his mighty powers of speech,—all felt the
inspiration of the scholar's hope. And the humble student who
strives to fill up the days and years of his life with the treasures of

THE SCHOLAR'S LIFE.

31

knowledge, is encouraged by the same desires which sustained
these great intellects, and he fondly longs to follow in their steps.

Difficulties may hang over him, fortune frown on his efforts,
and all seem dark around — but there's "a silver lining" to every
cloud, and the rainbow of promise shines in upon each storm of
adversity. The prize of future renown gleams before him, and
an unfading hope buoys up his spirits as he presses forward to the
goal. And what, do you ask, is all this worth? Why these strug-
glings, these yearnings for something unattained? What are the
aims of the scholar's life? Is it gold he seeks? Is it an inglori-
ous ease for which he toils? Or does the bubble reputation allure
him on, and a false ambition animate his labors? Is it one, or all
of these combined, which feed the flames that learning has kindled?
Such are never the objects of the true scholar. To him the end
of life is to gain the most perfect development of all his powers for
the purposes of benign and useful action. The discipline of study
will accomplish its only important use, if it shall have fitted him to
commence the active duties of life. For in some career of action,
his faculties must have their exercise, and if, prepared by early
efforts, he pursues, with untiring zeal, the highest ideals of his soul,
he will be all he desires to be. Yes! scholar, yours are opportunities
that never return. Like a dream your scholar days are passing
away, and the stream of youth is fast bearing you on to the broader
current of manhood and age. The present is all your own. Spend
it wisely and the future will bring you the reward. Let your joys
endear the labors of your lot — let your struggles be victorious —
your hopes never fade — and let all the ends you aim at be your
country's, your God's, and Truth's. Then will you show the world
that in the scholar's life are wrapt the germs of thought which bud
and blossom through the years of time, and will ripen into full frui-
tion in the endless ages of eternity.

32

THE MIRROR.

AUTUMN.

AUTUMN is fading day by day,
As leaves their sorrows tell :
The brightest months have sped away,
And zephyrs borne their knell.
Come, then, O Muse, with muffled lute,
In sadness touch the strings,
And breathe a sigh for fading flowers,
Sweet gems of a buried Spring.

Still tower the elms in grandeur,
Though 'reft of vernal bloom,
Like guardian angels round us,
Portraying Autumn's gloom;
And in each leafless branch is hung
A harp-string, sear and dry,
O'er which the wind-god loves to sweep
With deep and fervent sigh.

Dark forms are rustling on the ground,
In sombre mantles dressed —
A mourning train along the walk,
And on the mountain's crest,
As round fair Autumn's dying couch,
They stand in close array,
To bear her lovely, drooping form,
Down through the vales away.

Soon her smiling brow shall disappear,
Enwreathed in golden light —
Soon ruder blasts shall gather near,
Hastening Winter's night;
And snowy boughs shall wave aloft,
With murmurs wild and low,
While icy gems crown mountain-brows,
And brooklets cease their flow.

OBITUARY.

33

OBITUARY.

EVEN as at the base of the sacred mountain, the scenes of our Redeemer's humiliation and exaltation were closely contiguous, so is it that all the labyrinths of human life are chequered presentations of evanescent, fleeting joys, and blighting, corroding sorrows. The confluence of these, in their ever progressive flowings, constitutes the stream of life, the probation of earth; and they are the experience of all. And thus, when as a Society, we had well-nigh closed for another season of union with each other, an enjoyed engagement in our high object, the death messenger ruthlessly summons from us one with whom we had commingled, and demands that we close not these pages without a record of his invasion.

JOHN WHITING ALLEN departed this life, November 11th, 1855, at his home at Great Barrington, Mass., in the 18th year of his age, from congestion of the brain.

The deceased entered Phillips Academy with the commencement of the Autumn term of 1854, and became a member of the Philomathean Society, on the 16th of September following. He enjoyed a participation in our pursuits, and early engaged in our various exercises. Our last issue bore his name as an Editor, the office of whom is one of responsibility and importance. In his removal from us we are bereaved of one whose affability and equanimity of disposition and readiness for acts of cordial kindness united us to him with ties peculiarly appreciated in the student's life,—and a pall of sadness is extended over us.

On the morning of the Sabbath, October 21st, he was somewhat unwell, yet regarded himself as able to attend Divine Service, which he did for the last time. On his return, the premonitory symptoms of coming prostration increased, yet considering himself as but temporarily ill, he endeavored to pursue his studies on the subsequent day; but, on Wednesday morning, in accordance with medical advice, he withdrew from us, not doubting that the kindly ministrations of love at his own home would remove the occasion of apprehension of coming prostration. The exhaustion of the conveyance having ceased, there was for a brief season an apparent absence of former premonitions; yet, ere long, the forces of disease regathering themselves, removed reason itself from its throne, and with but transient intermissions he continued unconscious until his departure.

A stricken Society and Institution unites its grief in sympathy with that of his bereaved relatives. Widowed mother,—for thee and all thine, hath the public, the social and the private appeal ascended to the throne of love and mercy, that in this renewed bereavement the Great Physician should visit thee with the Balm in Gilead, his own sustaining grace. Dost thou trust that ere the cherished one of thy love, to whom thou didst confide the support and consolation of coming years, had heard death's early call, he sought and found, in the Lamb of God, an

5

34

THE MIRROR.

All-Sufficient Saviour? O, then, thou mayst rejoice in that trust! And when thou beholdest the garb of winter arraying the place of his mortal rest, think not of the winding-sheet and shroud and pall, but of the white robes and the palm and crown, which are the investitures of those who are " without fault, before the throne of God." And, supported by this trust, when the hand of love may train the flowers of Spring above his relics, think not of him as there. O, no! not there, but in that clime where flowers immortal bloom,—flowers which are transplantations from the soil of earth, for the supervision of the Lord of Paradise.

And when from earth's unrest thy Saviour calls
For thee, in love, to dwell in heaven's own light,
Thou shalt behold, blooming in fields Elysian,
Thy flowers of earth, *forever free from blight*.

To the members of this bereaved Society and Institution, the instruction of this providence is, that all remember their Creator in the days of their youth, and consecrate their hearts and lives to the service of the Redeemer; then, at whatever period we shall hear death's call, it shall be followed by an unalloyed communion with Him whom we shall have served below, and a re-union with the sainted ones, the loved and lost of earth, who shall all be found in heaven.