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his back, and wrung out his best services, are to his thinking like the summer dust which the whirling wheels roll up in the highways. Then, the truths of God, of the soul's truest good, of the connection of life and after life; of the nobleness of Justice, Truth, Purity and Love; of the reality of a Divine Providence, and the sense of God's presence, as of one who listens, and observes, and influences the heart, sink down from the recesses far up, where they had hidden, and invisible things, relations, conceptional truths, become more real to him than things which have physical substance and activity palpable to the

senses.

That tidings of death, or sudden losses, or the disclosure of disease in oneself, should give such projection to the mind, we can well understand. But how shall we account for such intense recognitions of spiritual truth, and such wide prospects of things at other times hidden, or seen in detail, and disconnectedly, and so unimpressively, when there is no exciting cause -no shock that electrifies the nerves, and arouses the mind to a state of exaltation? Thus one takes up some repository of news, and, stepping over the avidity of the editorial columns-full of only flying dust-he carelessly scans the jumble of advertisements -dogs, clothes, medicines, estrays, runaway apprentices, losses and findings, meat and drink; and besides these the ten thousand signals of quackery in every profession, the bland hints of vice for decent vicious men, and all the boastings, the promises and luresand while he divinely sees this phantasmagoria, and is half Christianly chiding himself for such a bitter contempt of life, and such a wish to be well rid of it, all at once, unbidden, without gradual transition, and with the clearness of a vision, there stands up before him a conception of the whole human family, just as they must appear to God, a vast complexity of interlaced and writhing, struggling worms! And such an

intense sense of sorrow, such a pity as almost suffocates the soul.

Then, quicker than a flash over all this abyssmal darkness, in which pride, and selfishness, and lust, and cruelty, shine and make dismal outcry, there rises up a sense of God's inexpressible patience, and a foreshadowing to the soul of some great consummation of which we have as yet not even a hint, and the heart rolls all its sadness and evils away, and clears itself of the horror of distresses, as the summer vault cleanses itself of storms, and changes all dark vapours into transparent ether. Just then, the boat touches the slip, you have crossed the ferry; and these thoughts like birds that had sang in the boughs of a tree, arise out of your mind with a clap of their wings, and are gone away. You, too, rush to the bow of the boat as if there were fire behind you, and join the throng that rattle gaily homeward. A few moments' walk clears you of the crowd, and remembering the flavour of your meditations, you put yourself into mood for them again. Now you try to fly up again Not a whit of it! You stretch out your thought to take the compass of life-in vain! You reach up to find those calm regions of repose where the soul rests itself as in the garden of God-they are all hidden. You implore the Majesty of Divine Presence to overshadow you again, but there is no voice to your spirit, and none that answereth. Why should such a vision have had its birth from the contents of a newspaper? Why, when intermitted, cannot the will evoke them again? Do they come without willing and refuse to come at the will's bidding?

Can any one tell why one sometimes awakens in the morning, and finds his mind harnessed from the first moment, and ready to dart off in some special direction? Why, sometimes, is there such a sense of the wickedness of oppression and injustice, such a conception of the facts of life-the strong consuming the

weak, the skilful, the wise, the refined, only armed by their excellence with the means of injury to their fellows, coupled with such a grief and indignation as shakes the very soul, and makes it resound, as old castles howl to the roar of intrusive tempests?

At another time it is a distress of love. Were all that is in heaven or upon earth ours, it would not be enough to express the soul's desire of blessing all that can feel a blessing. We would ask no other joy than to put a brighter light in every eye, a sweeter hope and truer joy in every heart. That should be our everlasting reward at the hands of God, to distribute his mercies to others. Suddenly out of this sense of the beauty, and nobleness, and joy of blessing others, there arises the stateliest thought of God, and a conception of his bliss, with such a heart of love, and such a hand of power, and with such a field, and all marching in glorious procession on-on-and for ever, that the soul has a certain faintness, from very joy.

If these states arose from the presence of objects or events which naturally led to such reflections, or if they arose from any principle of re-action, as the control and antithesis of any reverse objects, we should ascribe them to such influences. But often they defy both explanations. They come in season, and out of season; in high health, and in depression of vital power; in solitude, and in the roar of the city; in moods that are sad, and in moods that are merry and mirthful. They are capricious as regards one's own will.

Is it only a normal activity of the soul, in a higher range, for whose solution we simply lack familiar knowledge of ourselves? Is it the potent suggestions of ministering spirits? Is it not rather God's own Spirit inflaming ours-and unsealing the soul to influences quite impossible to it, by any suggestions or volitions of its own? It surely seems to us that the promises of Christ, that He will dwell within us, that He will give us a Comforter, an Enlightener, might

reasonably be expected to produce other and higher fruits than those which spring from the force of our own volition. And if such thoughts and such emotions, setting always toward God, toward Justice, toward Love, full of Hope, and Trust, and Heaven, are the things of God's Spirit, unsphering us from sensuous life, and giving us a prescience of life to come, then there is a glorious meaning in the promises of Christ. And we understand how He manifests Himself to his disciples as He doth not to the world.

EVENINGS WITH THE EDITOR.

EVENING THE EIGHTH.

Emm. Он, what a melancholy book!
Aug. What is melancholy, sister mine?
Emm. This LIFE OF HAYDON.

Mrs. M. The poor painter?

Emm. Yes, mamma.

I have been through the three volumes,

not reading quite every word, but gathering enough of the history to produce very sad feelings.

Ed. Have you read this Memoir, Augustus?

Aug. Why, yes, pretty much as Emmy has done; just glanced at the principal events, in order to be able to give a deliberate, serious, careful and impartial judgment.

Mrs. M. Not very able, if you have only glanced at the narrative.

Aug. My dear mother, this is all that critics do; they dip into a book here and there, and then pronounce its doom as gravely as if they had carefully read it, and weighed its merits with long and accurate deliberation.

Ed. If this is the way to become a critic, you will soon be qualified. Now, allow us to ascertain how much you know of this Memoir, after your hasty glances.

Aug. With all the pleasure imaginable; at least, with all the melancholy pleasure; for I am compelled for once to agree with my sister in mourning over it. The volumes are chiefly compiled

from certain auto-biographical records which Haydon left behind at his decease. These filled twenty-six volumes, minutely written, describing thirty-four years of the painter's life. He was born at Plymouth in 1786. His father was a printer, and to him he was bound apprentice; but soon exhibited a dislike to the business. His taste for drawing very early showed itself. When seven years old he was famous for pictures of the Guillotine, and Louis taking farewell of the People. At school he persuaded the boys to learn drawing in their play hours, and made himself their instructor. His friends were averse to his becoming a painter, but his restless energy overcame their opposition. I should think his father looked anything but pleased when young Haydon went to a sale of anatomical books, and got a copy of Albinus knocked down to him for £2 10s.

Mrs. M. Who paid for it?

Aug. The father, of course. His eager son had no money, so he left the payment to his father; his only concern being to get possession of the book. Then he set to work to copy the plates, and he persuaded his sister to ask him questions out of the work, so as to fix its knowledge firm in his memory. He learned the names and history of all the muscles of the body in a fortnight. Time wore on; his father became embarrassed in business; his son might have aided to relieve him, but his determination to follow an expensive career of art, only made matters worse. Nothing however deterred him; he obtained leave to visit London; and, somehow or other, extracting twenty pounds from the family purse, he started for the metropolis; affection for home, as he himself acknowledges, smothered, and his thoughts running only upon Sir Joshua, drawing, dissection and high art. In London he sought out several celebrated persons. The interviews were partly encouraging, and partly the reverse. They gave him their opinions and counsel, but he was his own adviser, and very seldom chose to follow the guidance of others. He had not been long at his new studies before he was sent for home, to see his father, who was thought to be dying. He found him, however, likely to recover; and, his thoughts reverting to his favourite pursuits, the same evening he got bones and muscles from the hospital, and pored over them till long after midnight. Then he went back to London, everybody asserting that he was mad. He soon became ac quainted with the Scotch genius, Wilkie, whose friendship proved of some use, in a pecuniary point of view; for he obtained for him his first commission, and also an introduction to Lord Mulgrave and Sir George Beaumont, the principal patrons of art at that time.

Mrs. M. Surely he got on now?

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