vanished like her face; and the innocence of childhood shall have become effaced by the stern experience of maturer life; in the hour of danger and temptation, of disappointment and sorrow, the memory of that hour when he first beheld the form and face of her he loved more than all things else, shall come to gladden his heart with joy unspeakable. In his heart of hearts, the image of his mother will be the object of his fond idolatry. He will adorn it with all his fondest thoughts and brightest conceptions of goodness, truth and beauty. Her tender love through his long dark night, The loss of any faculty of mind or body, is a calamity, not because, as it generally is suppos ed, it cuts one off from any one particular enjoyment, or prevents the mind from being harmoniously developed; but rather and most of all, because it tends to concentrate all thought and reflection upon self. I begin to discover in this an explanation of much of my life that seemed before an enigma. I am pledged to conceal nothing. Therefore I confess, though with shame, that most of my existence has passed away controled by selfishness and self-love. Nor am I consoled that my error is also the mistake which has embittered the life of most of my fellows. What is that disparity that exists between me and the great and good of every age? It is simply-I admire in them the absence of that selflove which has enslaved me. When I think with what eagerness I have received the pity and commiseration which my misfortune has excited, and how little sympathy I have felt for the misery and sufferings of others, my little life seems too poor and mean for a history, and I begin almost to regret the task I have undertaken. But will not this selfishness, this intense egotism, in which I have been so long engulphed, lead to some great and general end? We shall see. A few words are sufficient to relate the incidents of my earlier life. Much undoubtedly that belongs not to my general life, but which was the peculiar property of childhood, if I may so speak, has passed away with it. Some few things, however, belonging to the general account, seem worthy of note. I have sometimes been puzzled for an answer when I have asked myself the question, what would have been my condition, if my life had been other than what it has been? The days of my childhood instead of having been spent in dreaming, would proba bly have been occupied in sight-seeing. But would this have been better? Should I have made a wiser, or a happier man? Doubtless I should have known more of the outward world. But material objects would then have had a less dreamy and poetic influence. The mountain would have been a simple mountain to me, and the ocean-ocean; the landscape would simply have presented me with a number of beautiful images. But as it was, each object which could not be measured by my hands, was a mysterysomething to dream about. I remember, too, (I wish I did not,) that I came to be proud of that misfortune which distinguished me from my fellows. There was a kind of satisfaction, not very healthy, certainly, which I derived in hearing the change of voice when those I loved turned from speaking of others to speak of me. The pride and satisfaction, the kind of joyous tone with which my mother spoke of her children, was changed to a plaintive moan, as she spoke of him who could never more see her face. And this to me was a kind of compensation for the loss of the beautiful. When I went forth in the world, I received the same consideration; from every one came the same sad tones; the same mournful words. I have since wondered why they did not congeal in my heart-" Poor boy! he is blind." Long days I would sit beneath the shady tree and inhale the perfume of the flowers, and listen to the music of the birds, or wander by the sea-side listening to the waves as they dashed against the shore, wondering all the while with myself, what else there could be in nature which I could not enjoy-I who so excited the pity of others. In those bright days, (for bright they were, though unblest by sunlight,) a serene and holy joy pervaded my inmost being. Sometimes I thought of the distant stars not as I now think of them, huge planets revolving upon their axis or around their common centre, but bright mansions in the sky -blest homes of those too pure to dwell on earth. But there came a change. Selfishness and change are the two great causes of our misery. I passed from the innocence of childhood to what has been fitly enough called "the savage period." The first years of our life we retain upon our souls a faint impress of heaven's innocence. But the serpent lurks in our Eden, and soon the forbidden fruit tempts us onward. The senses gradually succeed in effacing all our bright reminiscences of a purer and a higher state. Finally, they succeed in creating a want they never can satisfy, and drive us forth in pursuit of knowledge. The silent sympathy which existed between us and all created things, has vanished, and we realize that we are in a world which we must either conquer, or where we must be conquered. In that intermediate state, the senses and the intellect sway our actions. The light of our intuitions becomes clouded. Instead of simple confidence, we have the painful consciousness of ignorance. God, who to the little child is in every leaf of the grove, in every ripple of the stream--whose greatness is reflected from whatever is grand-whose goodness smiles in whatever is beautiful, becomes, in this second state, a distant lawgiver; no longer is He the kind Father seen in sunshine and shower, but a severe Governor, dwelling in some distant part of the universe controlling all things by inexorable laws. Another characteristic of this savage transition state, is seen in the aversion we manifest for the simple ideas and pure pleasures of our former state. Having parted with our faith, we come under the dominion of our will. Having lost our love, we seek only for power. Happy he who passing this ordeal of his life, can, by the means of culture, and by something better, have restored to him, after many days and many tears, the serene joy and beautiful faith of his childhood. Moralists talk to us of heroic virtue, but who that can represent to himself what he was when a child, would place in comparison its simple goodness with that sorrowful experience of after years which is but the poor reward, or rather miserable result of a thousand conflicts with the world, the flesh, and the devil? Education is the only solace of our ignorance. But can the knowledge we acquire from the schools compensate and console us for the loss of that which makes knowledge necessary? Certainly I thought not, as I returned to the home of my childhood after many years absence. The divine element that pervaded all nature, was gone. The tree beneath whose shade I had spent so many happy hours, listening to the waving of its branches as it responded to the musie of the murmuring stream, was no longer a mystery, but something which my knowledge enabled me to ealculate the number of inches it contained, and the uses to which it might be applied. The ocean's roar was no longer the voice of God, but a natural phenomenon. Whatever once transcended the limited range of my faculties, whatever was beautiful or mysterious, was educed by the little knowledge of my brain now that the faith of the heart was gone, to the dull monotony of law and utility. But there is a higher culture than that hard and dry, and we may add, superficial knowledge, which substistutes appearance for reality, law for God, and the deductions of the mind for the intuitions of the soul. Indeed a man may be said not to be educated until having experimented with his senses, he has come to doubt their validity. It i is this noble doubt which turns the proud pedant, brimful of scientific conceit, after many wanderings, to the path which, if he pursues with faithfulness, shall conduct him to the peace and innocence which sympathy with nature and communion with God can alone impart. The noblest idealism is perfectly compatible with the simple confidence which the child reposes in the senses; and he, to whom the real is the ideal, to whom the material world is but the reflection of the soul, has obtained only from philosophy what was always his faith before the senses taught him to doubt. I know, in this age of ours, where the maxims of utility and expediency, constitute so much of our ethics and our religion, the suggestion of the idealist-that the outward is the fleeting and the transitory, that the soul is the only living reality, will excite pity and contempt. It is worthy of remark that the religious man, whether educated or not, is an idealist. And all religious books which the world has produced, teach this great truth, that "the things that are seen are temporal; the things that are not seen are eternal." But not to pursue this subject farther, we will merely remark, that the spiritualist or idealist possesses over him whose existence is absorbed in the world of senses, an advantage.which addresses itself to his selfishness, and may furnish a consideration to the sensualist to bestow upon spiritualism something more than a sueer. Idealism overcomes the fear of death by annihilating it. For the soul, there is but one life-one reality, that which changes is always death. I have thus endeavored to develope by reflecting upon my life certain principles rather than to narrate particular and unimportant events. But as yet I had not obtained the object of my search. I was still compelled to ask myself the question, what means it? Whither does it tend? Where is the consolation? My evil genius replied, "For you, O man, there is no consolation; life is but a dream, and man an enigma;" and I said in a kind of sorrowful despair, it cannot be that all this we call life, is causeless and aimless; it cannot be, that for those who strive and weep, there is no consolation; and then my good genius replied, "Hope on, and the consolations will come; for God is the author of all." And then I heard a voice whose music stole upon the heart like visions of memory, like those low, soft tones which had lulled me to sleep in the days of my infancy-'twas the voice of my mother;—and she said, "For these many years I have witnessed your wanderings, and I am now commissioned to bear to you that for which thou yearnest. Thou wouldst know the secret of life-that which can explain its meaning and impart consolation. Know then that in forgetfulness of self is the blessedness of life." The voice ceased, and I fell into a profound reverie. I said-as the light broke upon my soul-this then is the will of Heaven, that the love with which we have encircled ourselves, should encircle the universe. When a truth first dawns upon the mind, how much that before that was darkness becomes luminous! And thus I saw this truth reflected from the life of every great and good man; and more especially from that Perfect Life which has been and will continue to be forever the consolation and the joy of the ages. Moreover when I consider that period of my life, when standing upon the verge of manhood I felt a want, a kind of new born longing for sympathy and communion with something I knew not what,-that bright but troubled dream in which was blended all the aspirations of the past with all the hopes of the future,-that dreary sense of loneliness which made the world seem a desert;-strange that then I should not have discovered the impotency of self adoration. But I welcomed to my heart the image that consoled me, and incorporated it with myself. It was the embodiment of all my yearnings. It was the bright and glorious creation of all my fond fancies. It was not the beauty of form and face that smote my heart. It was the divine idea-the living, breathing, incarnate spirit made manifest to me, not through the beaming countenance and sparkling eyes, but by the low tremulous voice;-that voice by day and night, in joy or in sorrow, is evermore the light of my existence. I marvel, now that years have passed away, why it was that one with so many of the attributes of an angel, and so few of the frailties of a mortal, should not have taught me the impotency of self, and thesupreme blessedness of disinterested love. But whatever the human heart adores, it appropriates. So that which attracted in early manhood my heart's fondest and wildest devotion, became my higher and better self. This, then, is the law of our existencethe heart from loving itself-from a pure spontaneous impulse, shall go on expanding until it comprehendeth the universe. I see, then, wherefore I was made-that I might love and be loved. Love then is the source, the essence, and terminus of all things. I will then open my heart and receive all the influences from around and above. Nothing so insignificant but shall share my regard. I have now at last found the secret I have so longed for. Though the beautiful in earth and sky be still hid from my view; though the human face, radiant with beauty, be but a blank to me, yet will I rejoice that the earth and sky, with their myriad objects of beauty and sublimity, delight the eye and gladden the heart of the millions of earth's children. In rejoicing at my brother's blessedness, I will bury in forgetfulness my own selfish sorrow. There is a deeper beauty than that which the sunlight reveals in this all-pervading, all-absorbing love. Sometimes, perhaps, there will steal over me a yearning for some selfish delight, but it shall be only as a message from the dark past to urge me on to the bright future. Here then I have at length reached the object of my search; after long groping in the dark, I have discovered the meaning of my life. Henceforth, I will think and talk no more of myself. I am indeed no longer an individual, but a part of the great whole. My future is linked with the destiny of the universe. Consciousness of identity is evermore blended with the race. Where the smile of peace and joy dwelleth, there will be my blessedness. So long as the heart of one of earth's children shall pulsate with sorrow, I must weep. Having ascertained the ultimate purpose of my being, I now comprehend the life of my race, since both are identical. The world is still subjected to the law of self. Love is yet but the substance of our dreams. Still we must toil on. The day of rejoicing will come to the earth, and consolation unspeakable to the sad and sorrowing heart of humanity. God shall once more dwell with his children. Eden shall be no longer a tale of the past. Love incarnate shall no longer be a mystery. Then will the home of humanity be the abode of angels; and Heaven shall be established upon the earth. And then again "the morning stars shall sing together, and all the sons of God shout for joy." B. B. BOWEN.. THE DRAGON QUELLER. A WARM sky shelters, and sweet woods enclose And welkin warblers flood the world with song; And while once more thy mansions on my eyes And from them forms of men and matrons beam, Calanda rose when Earth, all young and gay, As e'er flung back the purple day spring's fires; And that fine people passed through all the states And while Calanda flourished all the charms Fair Celia Merlin first upon my sight And hung new blooms on every charm that wins, And twined new graces round these rare young twins. Celia and Clelia passed their tenth proud year, And lives grown lovelier made the girls more dear; And it was boon enough one home to bless, Nor less a light was Attawanda Wold, From Julia Moreland not one house alone, And orphaned one there was not in the place And while fresh tears for absent Alma flow, His hale and buoyant soul grew young and bright He reigned a patriarch over patriarchs old, And gave them counsels, and their griefs consoled; He walked congenial with the ripening race; Reared by sage Gilroy to a knightly life, Her youth to train to manly moods and might, And led their fleet steps o'er the hills of light. And there were more the mindful Muse would sing, And there were fond enchantments she would fling Around the hearts that hear the jocund song blooms Around Calanda, hiding all her glooms; Hedged with drear cypress and o'erhung with clouds That wrapped the glowing sky in ghastly shrouds; A Fiend he was of medley form and mien, His mouth of moans, and laughs, and growls and jeers, Cut like a horse-bell, opened to his ears. In lazy moods, while breathing blight and gall, But when he issued on his usual round Calanda's people from the primal hour |