our appreciation of leisure as a test of improved character and growing resources? The next feature in the prevalent theory of life to which I would allude, is the want of serenity. In society, business, and education, there is a spirit of urgency, an artificial force constantly exhibited, as opposed to true habits of mind as it is to real happiness. If enterprise hath her Carnival here, enjoyment often keeps Lent. We accustom ourselves to live in a continual bustle, and make, on all occasions, a parade of action, as if this were the true criterion of success, the only evidence of progress. We do not believe in the wise saying, that "it is an absolute, and as it were a divine perfection for a man to know how loyally to enjoy his being.' There is a true epicurism-the luxury of an existence regulated by the natural wants and higher instincts of the individual, of which we are practically ignorant. Instead of meeting in the frank simplicity and heartiness becoming republicans, at one another's firesides, in the full and frequent confidence of genuine social feeling, interchanging opinions, and enjoying the delights of sympathy, we deem it better to crowd our small apartments to suffocation, wander for several hours over a dwelling which has been disarranged from garret to cellar for the occasion, exchange a word or sign of recognition with some hundred acquaintances, and close the evening's pastime by partaking of an extravagant entertainment. Even the preparation for the conflict of life to which the earlier years of existence are sacred, is marked by the same ostentatious urgency. The tender brain of infancy is fevered by the spirit of emulation. The child is incited at home by the ambitious views of his parents, and surrounded at school by a system of artificial machinery. Certificates of conduct and studies flutter weekly before his eyes, inspiring the same anxious foreboding that the thought of promissory notes is destined in after life to awaken—when the banks suspend specie payments. Then come periodical examinations and exhibitions, for which the pupil undergoes weeks of extra drilling, as if he could not be too early and too deeply impressed with the importance of display. How often is the sensitive New England youth forced to sympathize in Tony Lumpkin's un dutiful remonstrance to his mother's officious and mistaken kindness, which she justifies by the common plea, that it was all for the victim's good. “I wish you'd let me and my good alone, then. If I'm to have any good, let it come of itself; and don't keep dinging it, dinging it into me so." And when he leaves the scene of education, whatever his calling, the same principle of "affected dispatch," as Lord Bacon calls it, must be acted upon. If he would succeed in business he must identify himself with some popular movement, he must contrive to keep his name before the public, with the epithets, "liberal and enterprising," appended to it. A hint must now and then be given in the papers, of his yearly sales, or the amount of hands he employs. Above all, he must keep up in his own person an appearance of business. His rapid gait, hasty speech, and short salutations must give the world assurance of a busy man. Mrs. Jameson, whose observation was artistic, as well as sympathizing, observed, that American faces had an outward look. This extends even to American enjoyments, of which it may be said, as some traveller said of the English, "they amuse themselves sadly after the manner of their country." If, on the other hand, a professional life is adopted, the first thing necessary to success is, to do or to seem to do something extraordinary. One must advocate some peculiar system, announce some startling novelty, or espouse some public cause, and let it be known from Maine to Georgia that he is ready to become a martyr in its behalf. In a word, this trait of our philosophy of life is almost universal. Scarcely a week passes without a celebration by public dinners and eloquent harangues of some popular event or local anniversary. The political atmosphere is never quiet, and the social spirit is ever and anon aroused by some bold doctrine or alleged discovery. Now that there is much that is really desirable in such symptoms, it would be absurd to deny,-that they constitute an unavoidable feature in our present stage of progress, is very evident. Still it is of great importance that the individual should not be deceived or carried away by this universal semblance of activity. In older countries we often see a graceful repose upon destiny, an absence of care respecting the future, and an instinctive trust like that in which a bird or flower lives, which, to say the least, leaves the mind free to please and be pleased, and renders far less prevailing than with us the idea of self-interest and morbid ambition. Such beings have the requisite sympathy to regard the individuality, and realize the fraternal relation, which make human society endearing. Let us not be beguiled of our self-possession by the bustle around us. Let us not be so absorbed in the show of things, as to miss their essence and reality. There is no little danger amid all this exhibition of force, this large promise of results, that we shall be drawn aside from our true position by the stream of multitude. The great duty which such artificial activity imposes upon the individual, is to estimate calmly the real value of the objects for which so much sympathy is demanded. His obligations to his own nature are paramount to those which society so constantly urges. A few years since, a volcanic island appeared off the coast of Sicily. It was announced by many and portentous signs. Shocks of an earthquake were felt in the vicinity; immense quantities of fish rose dead to the surface of the sea, and the water, for a considerable space, was strangely agitated. At length columns of dense smoke rose up from the waves, intermingled with globes of fire, and accompanied with the noise of thunder. After many days the vapor rolled away and left a small island revealed, where before there was but a watery waste. The phenomenon excited immense interest. Scientific men flocked to the place to investigate, the material, and account for the construction of the island. The curious repaired thither to gratify their thirst for novelty, and the incredulous to satisfy their doubts. Finally, an English voyager landed on the spot, and planting the flag of his country, gave it the name he himself bore. Satisfied that by this act his immortality was secured, he hastened home to report his discovery. Meantime the captain of a Sicilian vessel explored the island, indignantly tore down the British ensign, and erecting that of the Two Sicilies, declared that it should be ever known as the isle of Ferdinand. While the right of possession was warmly disputing, and the philosophers of Sicily argued as earnestly all the scientific problems involved in the subject, while surveyors vied with each other in drafting its form, and ascertaining its dimension, the devoted island suddenly disappeared beneath the sea, and the next morning nothing met the eyes of the discomfited spectators but a solitary expanse of water. Are not many popular objects announced by a like display of noise and glare as foretold the volcanic "island? And after absorbing the energies of a crowd of aspirants for fame or fortune, do they not, in like manner, sink into the waters of oblivion? Are not the fire of genius, the apprehension of intellect, the warmth of the heart, too sacred to be carelessly expended? Shall we be decoyed by every transient fire that gleams upon the ocean of life, when we can wander calmly along its firm shores, and look out, unsubdued, upon the tumult of its waves? There is an efficacy in calmness of which we are unaware. The element of serenity is one which we peculiarly need. I speak not of that calmness which is more properly stagnation,not the calmness of apathy and indifference, but what Wordsworth calls the "quiet of a thinking mind self-occupied,"-the calmness of an army before the onset, of the dark cloud before the thunder-burst, of the torrent before it strikes the rocks-significant of gathering strength, of concentrate power, of quiet energy. How full of emblems of this serene action is Nature! The frosts of autumn touch the forest leaves, and we admire their gorgeous dyes. Gradually they are loosened from the branches by the wailing breeze, and in a few days, lie thickly strewn upon the ground, there to decompose and enrich the very loam that nourished them into life. What a universal change, and how quietly produced! What can be more awful than many of the phenomena which the snows of winter occasion? Melting in the hollows of the hills, this white and fleecy substance dissolves, streams into the valleys and collects into torrents that swell the neighboring rivers and produce the most destructive inundations. Masses of snow conjoin among the Alpine summits, and thunder down in the form of the terrific avalanche. On a night when the winds are hushed, how noiseless falls the snow! With what profound quiet it accumulates! Yet the mighty and hitherto invincible army of Napoleon was subdued by a Russian snow-storm. Thus is it with the soul. But a small part of its deepest and truest activity can be displayed. There is a mystery in its growth. The best energies of our nature, too, are quietly unfolded and slowly matured. There is a power and truth which can only be realized in tranquillity. There is a wisdom that displays itself only in the serene and thoughtful breast. There are beauties of character which, like the night-blooming Cereus, are closed against the glare and turbulence of everyday life, and bloom only in shade and solitude and beneath the quiet stars. Another principle in the New England philosophy of life, which demands attention, is extreme devotion to reason. Franklin is still the personation of the American mind abroad, an honored name, indeed, but one that serves only as a partial exponent of humanity-the type of the practical, not the ideal man, of useful science rather than the soul. In no other country could Poor Richard's sayings have attained such favor. Our only metaphysician who enjoys a European reputation, is Edwards, whose celebrated work on the Will is devoted to a defence of the old popular theology. The pride of the cultivated New Englander is that he is rational. The first lore instilled into his mind is in the shape of prudential maxims. The favorite term of approbation he bestows upon a woman is sensible, and there is nothing so congenial to his ambition as the reputation of talent. The natural consequence is that his ideal of character is based almost wholly upon intellectual gifts, and attainments. Every subject is viewed through the cold medium of expediency; all questions must be tried by the level light of the understanding, and the most hallowed associations and universal precedents wrested into the service of temporary and narrow objects. One of our most distinguished men in a critique upon Othello-that unrivalled exposition of the power of love and "jealousy, that doats but dooms, and murders yet adores,"-declares the moral of the sublime drama to be an exposition of the evil consequences of amalgamation and runaway matches! In this tendency to seize upon the rationale of existence, to act upon what are called common-sense principles, there is doubtless much to approve. A We crusade for the community thus characterized possesses an essential element of advancement. But when such a theory is exclusive, when it is reposed upon as broad and deep enough for the soul, and becomes, as it were, the standard of life and the mould of character, we are tempted to exclaim with Charles Lamb, "Hang them!-I mean the cursed reasoning crew-those blights and blasts of all that is human in man or child." We do not appreciate feeling. We estimate knowledge far beyond sentiment. We reverence intellect but look distrustfully upon enthusiasm, for the love of excitement in which the formal lives of New Englanders re-act, is not entitled to the name. most part against vices of appetite, which are often the overflowings of rich natures, linked with the most generous qualities, and in most cases, only fatal when habitual and excessive. We do not realize that the moral evils that most effectually despoil the spirit of beauty are those of calculation, to which perverted intellect panders ;these are integral, not incidental. A lapse of integrity, an act of successful fraud accomplished with consummate skill, is infinitely more detestable than the temporary abuse of any natural appetite, for it argues the deliberate perversion of the higher faculties-a hopeless barrenness of noble feeling. I know that many will not consent to such a broad distinction between the mind and the heart; ideas, say they, are but feelings shaped into thought. such metaphysical niceties have nothing to do with our present purpose. Everyone is conscious of a power within him which reasons, judges, and infers, and other and far different capacities, whose office it is to awaken, impel, and fill him with emotions. Now I think it cannot be denied that the reasoning powers are too frequently cultivated with us, at the expense of those fine sensibilities and warm impulses which exist in every human breast. The sternness of our Puritan origin, the formality of our system of education, the reserve of our social intercourse, the calculating habits of our national character-all tend to repress in the young the earnest flow of their hearts; they early acquire a false shame at the expression of feeling, and come to regard the least manifestation of natural ardor as undignified and weak. And thus the say But ing of one of the commentators on our country is verified-our climate has no spring and our people no youth. One often recalls the exclamation of the afflicted parent depicted by Shakspeare, to his officious consoler, "I prithee, peace!-I will be flesh and blood." The brave Marquis of Posa in Schiller's Don Carlos, in his bold and generous appeal to the cruel Philip, exclaims, "In your great system, suffer souls to ripen!" One is inclined to urge the same plea upon those who are so active in their cares for the New England mind. The cares of life and the scenes of competition, into which the New Englander is early introduced, will do enough to indurate and pervert the fountains of the heart. Let not our theory of life, our practical philosophy, second the process which circumstances already sufficiently ensure. The vivid ness and strength of early impressions every one has realized. They color our whole after lot. Now, it is remarkable that, acknowledged as this truth universally is, its actual influence upon education is so slight. The impression which the child receives will be indissolubly associated with all his future experience. Should it not then be more a matter of conscience with parents and teachers to minister to the happiness of childhood, to reverence its freedom, instead of following the example of the sagacious man who clipped the wings of his bees and selected for them such flowers as he chose? Let us refrain from stamping any stern or dark impression upon the young heart, that it may meet the problem of life in a fresh and original spirit. The discipline to which we are subject in early life, however kindly intended, too often weaves shadows for our future lot, and sadly mars our spiritual destiny. Byron breaks off in the midst of his glorious lay inspired by classic scenes, to lament the forced teaching of his youth, which embittered the pages of Horace for ever to his taste; and how many New Englanders, from a similar cause, have the painful associations of a task connected with the best of books, and the gloomiest sense of restraint associated with the holiest of days! We laugh at the impatient child who daily digs up the seed to see if it has sprouted, and are content to supply good soil to the plant and leave it to the free air, the soft dew, and the balmy sunshine; why are we less just to the soul? To guard it from evil, and to meet its wants as far as we can, is indeed our duty; but a higher power has already ordained its capacities; to them we can neither add nor take away. Let us show some veneration for God's holy work, and leave it more to his smile and its own freedom. Another consequence of this exclu-` sive faith in reason is that it disposes us to repose entirely upon rules, to act too constantly upon arbitrary principles, till the mechanical triumphs over the spiritual, and mere habit usurps the place of the spontaneous. Now I do not deny that rules have their utility, that in a world of vicissitude certain laws of action must be, to some extent at least, adopted, and that fixed principles are the best security to virtue. But this admission does not justify the dogged attachment to certain maxims which is so often boasted of as the distinction of New England philosophy. Constant ! reference to precise rules indicates the novice. The artist, at first, is continually measuring, but as his eye becomes practised, he confides in its accuracy. An instinct developes within him more certain than the dictum of science. And thus the soul outgrows maxims and becomes spontaneously progressive and true. With many votaries of the rational system, I believe, the great idea of improvement consists in nothing more than adding to their stock of ideas. Some, indeed, do not even go thus far, but are chiefly anxious to abide by those they have already acquired. The direct tendency of this feature of the prevalent philosophy is to lead a man, particularly one of passive temperament, to entrench himself in a set of fixed laws, as if the goal of progress was reached, the great end of life achieved. He has established a certain theory of dietetics, a certain system of expense, has chosen a set of companions, and adopted a certain political and religious creed, and now all that remains for him is to abide by all these rules, and thus realize Burns' picture: O ye douce folk, that live by rule, All this is directly opposed to freedom and to progress. The pursuit of truththe highest vocation of man-is thus foreclosed; the exercise of generous sympathies that dearest of human privileges-is renounced. The individual has sold his birth-right. He is an apostate from the true faith of humanity. He has relinquished the real glory of his nature. The future is denuded of hope to his fixed gaze, and his heart beats only in monotonous echoes to the slow and weary footsteps of time. A work of art is said to be perfect in proportion as it does not remind the spectator of the process by which it was created; so a character is delightful as we lose all sense of its training in the love of its spontaneous excellences. Let us recognize the beauty and power of true enthusiasm; and what ever we may do to enlighten ourselves and others, guard against checking or chilling a single earnest sentiment. For what is the human mind, however enriched with acquisitions or strengthened by exercise, unaccompanied by an ardent and sensitive heart? Its light may illumine, but it cannot inspire. It may shed a cold and moon-light radiance upon the path of life, but it warms no flower into bloom; it sets free no icebound fountains. Dr. Johnson used to say, that an obstinate rationality prevented him from being a papist. Does not the same cause prevent many of us from unburthening our hearts and breathing our devotions at the shrines of nature? There are influences which environ humanity too subtle for the dissecting knife of reason. In our better moments we are clearly conscious of their presence, and if there is any barrier to their blessed agency, it is a formalized intellect. Enthusiasm, too, is the very life of gifted spirits. Ponder the lives of the glorious in art or literature through all ages. What are they but records of toils and sacrifices supported by the earnest hearts of their votaries? Dante composed his immortal poem amid exile and suffering, prompted by the noble ambition of vindicating himself to posterity; and the sweetest angel of his paradise is the object of his early love. The best countenances the old painters have bequeathed to us are those of cherished objects intimately associated with their fame. The face of Raphael's mother blends with the angelic beauty of all his Madonnas. Titian's daughter and the wife of Cor regio again and again meet in their works. Well does Foscolo call the fine arts the children of Love. The deep interest with which the Italians hail gifted men, inspires them to the mightiest efforts. National enthusiasm is the great nursery of genius. When Cellini's statue of Perseus was first exhibited on the Piazza at Florence, it was surrounded for days by an admiring throng, and hundreds of tributary sonnets were placed upon its pedestal. Petrarch was crowned with laurel at Rome for his poetical labors, and crowds of the unlettered may still be seen on the Mole at Naples, listening to a reader of Tasso. Reason is not the only interpreter of life. The fountain of action is in the feelings. Religion itself is but a state of the affections. I once met a beautiful peasant woman in the valley of the Arno, and asked the number of her children. "I have three here and two in paradise," she calmly replied, with a tone and manner of touching and grave simplicity. Her faith was of the heart. Constituted as human nature is, it is in the highest degree natural that rare powers should be excited by voluntary and spontaneous appreciation. Who would not feel urged to high achievement, if he knew that every beauty his canvass displayed, or every perfect note he breathed, or every true inspiration of his lyre, would find an instant response in a thousand breasts ? Lord Brougham calls the word "impossible" the mother-tongue of little souls. What, I ask, can counteract self-distrust, and sustain the higher efforts of our nature but enthusiasm? More of this element would call forth the genius, and gladden the life of New England. While the mere intellectual man specu lates, and the mere man of acquisition cites authority, the man of feeling acts, realizes, puts forth his complete energies. His earnest and strong heart will not let his mind rest; he is urged by an inward impulse to embody his thought. He must have sympathy; he must have results. And nature yields to the magician, acknowledging him as her child. The noble statue comes forth from the marble, the speaking figure stands out from the canvass, the electric chain is struck in the bosoms of his fellows. They receive his ideas, respond to his appeal, and reciprocate his love. Constant supplies of knowledge to |