set about the work, and had just completed it, when my door was unlocked, and my father and one or two other persons, of great strength, entered. 'I was sitting partly naked upon the floor, surrounded by the remnants of bed clothes, which I had torn. I was certainly in my right mindbut if there ever was a representation of insanity, it was then. I saw it-I knew resistance or argument would be fruitless: the men took hold of me, and conducted me to a narrow apartment provided for me at a distance from the dwelling; they firmly secured the door and left me. I think from that awful night of darkness, on the bay, my mind had gradually yielded to my griefs; I certainly was not what I had been-but when I was thrust into that den, I was shut out alike from commerce with my kind, and that which makes the commerce valuable-reason. I know when I yielded; I know how long I grappled, how I tried to connect my thoughts; how I talked on in solitude and darkness, only that I might satisfy myself that I could talk reasonably-and I remember when the last link of hope was severed-when I felt myself a lunatic.

"Oh! how little do they understand of lunacy, who have not suffered its horrors; step by step to see it coming, closer and thicker every day, like the accumulating misfortunes of the unsuccessful merchant; and to feel, like him, more and more anxious to conceal their approach, as they come nearer and more heavy. Oh God! how have I wished for one kindred mind, one soul who could feel-not with, but for me; one on whose breast I might lean-to tell my sufferings, to whom I might open up my heart, and have him pity and heal; any thing would have been preferable to the cold suspicion I endured; a settled prejudice, a determination to believe me crazy-till they made me so.

"Could I have met a foe-one who would have dared me to the proof of reason, by argumenthe should have found my grasp dangerous and effective; but no, I was hedged in by the determination of my friends-aye, friends! I had not an enemy on earth-but those friends knew nothing of the mind-with them, to see it bent, was to believe it destroyed. Could they have reasoned with me, could they have employed my mind, perhaps, I should have been saved; though hallucination, it was said, was not uncommon among the members of my mother's family. But there was none to befriend, and in the first symptoms of my mental aberration, I was thrust, like those suspected of a plague, where restoration would be a miracle.

weary you with their detail; I will not tell you, how day after day I tried to beguile the hours; books in such a place have no power. I stepped round my narrow room, counting my steps; then renewing my course to see whether I had numbered the paces exactly; I counted the crevices in the ceiling, prognosticated my release by the coincidence, with my previous guess, of the number of persons who should pass along the distant highway. How busy, how necessarily active the human mind is, no one can tell, until he ceases to afford it cause for operation by change of place, or by corporeal exercise.

"From the narrow aperture in front of the box, in which I was confined, I could look forth upon the expanse of Heavens; I could see men going about the business of life, with an indifference to every object but the single one upon which they were bent. Could I have shared with them their freedom, I would, I thought, have taken the aggregate of their labours upon my single self. I stretched out my arms and bared my bosom to every breeze that found its way to my confinement. I desired-but no, I will not

Among the worst evils of my confinement, was the impertinent gaze and questioning of neighbours, and their thoughtless children. I can distinctly remember, when I have placed myself at the window of my room, with a hope to still the busy working of the mind by attention to passing objects, and cool the fever of my brain, by feeling the blessed wind of heaven, I have suffered from the intrusion of those who think insanity deprives its object of feeling as well as of liberty. They have questioned and I have answered, not with a desire to please them, but satisfy myself, that I could give categorical replies; but they, instead of aiding by withdrawing my thoughts from myself, would continually direct their questions towards my own situation; and my replies would, I was sensible then of the fact, and I remember it now, sometimes wander far from the interrogation, and at length, word after word would escape, till the whole was incoherency and raving, The echo of my own voice has occasionally misled me, and I have replied with dreadful eagerness to the imaginary mockeries that started at evening from the untenanted buildings in the vicinity, as if my unsettled mind discovered in them a cause of offence.

"Do not mistake me; I was then crazy. 1 knew that that caused my confinement; I felt the wanderings of my mind as plainly as I now feel the breeze from the swelling tide; and when I approached the recollection of those hours of unmingled happiness that I had once enjoyed with her who had been to me my all of lifewhen I remembered the bitterness of my loss, and conjured up the thick feeling, aye, the palpable darkness of that night upon the watersthen, indeed, I felt the withering blast of a mental siroc. There are no words to tell what I have felt in years of confinement, and not one day of all its long, long course of misery was blank. I remember with a horrid distinctness every moment of its tedious passage.

"On the evening of a day marked by excessive heat, my mind was just gaining repose from a violent agitation produced by the unkind, the wicked interference of unfeeling visitors, I dragged a seat to my narrow window, and sat down to look out upon nature, and endeavour to hush the tumult of my mind, by contemplating the calmness of the scene before me.

"How often, on such an evening, had Miriam gathered the children of the family around her,

and while she instilled into their minds lessons of early love to God, and reverence to parents, would beguile them into attention, by finding points of resemblance of the dark clouds that skirted the horizon of the west, to some of those turreted towers that she had passed in her journeys in Europe, and the western shores of Asia. "I have sat, and watched her, till I doubted whether it was the reflected rays of the sun, or the effect of purest inspiration that lighted up her face.

"My mind slowly recovered its tone; indeed I was blest with an unusual tranquillity. I gazed upon the windows of the distant church, and as the last beam of the sun trembled upon its fantastic, diamond windows, I thought of her who lay low and cold beneath its eaves.

"There was a method in the arrangement of my thoughts that gave me hope. I felt none of those mental aberrations that had previously distinguished my most favoured moments. even felt a hope that I should once more be as other men.

I

"As the sun went down, 1 could perceive the edge of the horizon dimmed with a rising cloud; it rose slowly and heavily; it had nothing fantastic in its form; it was solid, and dark. I knew its portent, and retired. That restive wakefulness, that had hitherto marked my nights, was no longer felt; 1 was pressed down with a dullness; a stupor came over me, and I prepared for rest. Hitherto 1 had known little of dreams; or it may be that I cannot now distinguish between the operations of my mind, when sleeping, and when awake; they were not essentially different. A consciousness of some undefined danger-a fear of misapprehension, a sense of oppression, and an inability to make my words express my thoughts-these were sensations of all times and all seasons. But I had scarcely disposed myself upon the little couch in my room, when my mind became unusually active. All my existence seemed crowded into a moment, and in that moment was the presence of Miriam. I was sitting with her upon the very point of the beach on which I have so often indulged my reflections. I remember now, with strange distinctness, every little circumstance of that dream. I saw the waves spend their little force upon the bankand could feel each ripple, which crept far up the sand moisten my feet, and give a cooling freshness to my frame.

"Miriam was discoursing, and 1 gazing with intensity upon her face; when suddenly, I thought the dimness of that dark day came upon usdeeper and blacker, but not with its stillness. I could see the sun in the heavens, but it was shorn of its beams-lurid, but not bright; and the deep peals of thunder were sounding along the bay, and echoing from every height-I turned for a moment from the scene, and Miriam was gone. I saw her then upon the waves which the storm had lifted up-through the gloom I saw her clinging with one hand to the remnant of a wreck, and with the other beckoning to me for help. I started to plunge into the channel, but

an unknown power held me to the groundanother effort, and I sprung from my couch. The scene had indeed changed, but scarcely for the better; my mind was affected with the dream, and I rushed to the window of my room; what a scene was presented-the firmament was lighted up by one sheet of fire, and the wretched building in which I was confined, seemed to reel with the effect of the thunder. I was drenched with the rain which poured in torrents upon me, and felt that some evil out of the ordinary course of nature, was approaching. I cried aloud for help, but the reverberations of the thunder, mocked my voice; my eyes were seared with the flash of the lightning; yet I gazed on, as if in hopes of meeting some object amid the rage of elements around me. Though much of the terror of my dream was upon me, I did not then feel as 1 had before; I certainly was unconscious of insanity; my mind, so far as the horrors of the scene and the recent shock of the dream would permit, was unusually regular. I mention this now, because I know you will think that what I have yet to say, has more of insanity in it than my former feelings. Such was the unabated glare of light, that I could perceive distant objects with all the distinctness of day. My eye, for a moment, rested upon the distant church; while 1 gazed, another flash of lightning gave new forms to my perceptions, and I saw a figure-distinctly, clearly, saw a female form. I gazed with eagerness -it was MIRIAM. With every flash of lightning, she was nearer, and more and more visible. It was reality; there could be no deception; every other object was natural. I beat upon the wall; it sent back its echo, and I felt a sense of pain from my effort. I closed my eyes, and when again 1 looked, she was there. She was, as I had seen her; there was nothing of death or the grave upon her; the lightning, did indeed, throw a paleness upon her visage, and tipped with fire, her hair which the wind blew wildly about. But it was Miriam's form, light and graceful; it was her face, solemn, but benignant. She approach ed and spoke; from a world of voices, I should know hers. You are incredulous; but I have learned-learned by bitter experience, to distinguish between the phantoms of a feverish brain, and the plain visible objects that heaven and earth present to our onward senses. And, as true as we now gaze upon yonder rook, rising amidst the waters; so true I saw the form of Miriam, and heard her voice-clear, distinct and solemn, audible, amidst the most appalling peals of thunder. I stretched out my hands to clasp hers-but though visible and distinct, I could not reach it. I called upon her name; she waved her hand, and retired rapidly from me-1 cried aloud, but only the thunder answered-I reached forth from my window, to gaze with greater intensity-I saw her still. The lightnings were playing harmlessly around her-new life and new strength were infused into my frame. I scattered the fastening of my abode-I felt that no human grasp could hold me. One strong effort more, and all would be accomplished.

3

"1 gazed around, a physician was near my bed, and my friends were watching me with anxiety depicted upon their faces. I attempted to move, but was too weak. I slowly recovered my strength, and felt that with physical powers, I acquired mental energies and capacities of directing my thoughts. To what had passed that night, I was fully sensible, and I learned that the building in which I was confined, was struck by lightning, and I was dragged, bruised and lifeless from its smouldering ruins. The shock I had sustained, may have restored in some measure, my shattered senses-but still agitation, disquiet, and one train of thought unsettles me.

"It was not long before I recovered sufficient strength to leave the house. I was no longer watched. I visited every spot along the shore consecrated by the remembrance of Miriam's instructions. You, who never knew confinement, who was never shut out from life and its engagements, cannot judge of my feelings, when again I set my foot upon these sands. 1 gazed over the bay with inexpressible fondness. 1 bared my bosom to the cooling breeze from the waters-I stretched out my arms, as if the yielding air could be embraced-how 1 doted upon every hill and rock, and with what ecstacy did I remark that I was alone. There were none to gaze upon my expressions of fondness, as there were surely none who could understand them.

"There is, scarcely a rod beyond us, a brook which rises near the road above us, and finishes its most limited course here in the bay. In the shade of that rock, I kneeled and bent over the stream to drink. I started back with amazement -sickness might have wrought much upon my face-but my hair, which, when last reflected from that surface, was black as the raven's, was

now bleached to the whiteness of snow, and this was grief-mental anguish.

Among the few articles left by Miriam, appeared a gold coin-almost unobserved, I smoothed the piece, and with my knife 1 etched upon it her name and age, and at night I visited her grave. There was neither stone nor hillock to denote it, yet I knew the spot, and with an iron bar, I forced an opening from the surface to the coffin, and I dropped into it the piece of gold. I heard it fall upon the decaying tenement of her sacred frame, and filling the aperture, left the place.

"The coin which I had deposited, would have purchased a splendid monument for Miriam, but her memorials should be like her virtues-pure, rich, and unobtrusive.

"Should any event lead to the disturbance of the dead in yonder cemetery, her resting place may be recognised by the coin, with this simple legend:

C HERE SLEEPS

MIRIAM DAVIDS,

DAUGHTER OF ABRAHAM JOSEPHS, A NATIVE OF SALTZBURG, IN TRANSYLVANIA.' "I have done. From that time, I have spent my days upon this shore and the distant beach, combatting, at seasons, with the disposition of my mind to wander, leading a useless and an unhappy life. When again we meet, I will place in your hands, the manuscripts of Miriam. I cannot trust myself to read them."

A few days following that on which the unhappy man concluded his narrative. I met him in his usual walk; when he put into my hands the manuscript, which he had promised, together with a small package containing papers, which he himself wrote during his confinement. These perhaps, I should not publish; but I have his permission to print the whole or any part of Miriam's writings. A liberty which I shall use, upon any reasonable intimation of curiosity on the part of my readers.

HOME.

On! if there be on earth a spot

Where life's tempestuous waves rage not, Or if there be a charm-a joy

Without satiety, or alloy

Or if there be a feeling fraught

With ev'ry fond and pleasing thought,

Or if there be a hope that lives

On the pure happiness it gives,
That envy touches not-where strife

Ne'er mingles with the cup of life ;

Or if there be a word of bliss,
Of peace, of love-of happiness—
Or if there be a refuge fair,
A safe retreat for toil and care,
Where the heart may a dwelling find,
A store of many joys combin'd,
Where ev'ry feeling-ev'ry tone-
Best harmonises with its own,
Whence its vain wishes ne'er can rove,
Oh ! it is Home !—a home of love.

THE METEOR.

YE, who look with wondering eye,
Tell me what in me ye find,

As I shoot across the sky,
But an emblem of your kind.

Darting from my hidden source,
I behold no resting place;
But must ever urge my course
Onward, till I end my race!

While I keep my native height,
I appear to all below
Radiant with celestial light,
That is brightening as I go.

When I lose my hold on heaven, Down to shadowy earth I tend, From my pure companions driven ; And in darkness I must end!

A POET, whether of the higher or the mediocre order, never addresses his mistress, without com. memorating, in the best numbers he can produce, the charms of her eye. It is the moon that borrows its light from the interior sun of the soul, and expresses all the variations of that living luminary, in language that cannot deceive. We may often throw a mantle of words over our thoughts, and, when it suits our purpose, disguise them to a certain extent, but the eye seldom participates in the stratagem. It is a true index to what is really passing in the world of idea within, and the sincerity of its language, its readiness to bear witness to the truth or falsehood of our assertions, to place its stamp of currency on the former, and of counterfeit on the latter, forms in all climates one of its most valuable claims to our admiration. Hence, we have an interest in knowing the real intention of another towards us, we should not correspond with him by letter; we should see and converse with him, and read the involuntary revelations of his eye: they can seldom lead us astray.

The races of mankind, scattered over the surface of the earth, differ materially from each other in stature, in the contour of the face, the colour of the complexion, and the external appearance of the figure. It is not difficult to distinguish the Scotch from the English, or either from the Irish, the French, the Germans, the Italians, or the Spaniards. The distinctions become broader when we compare the inhabitants of one continent with those of the other-the Europeans with the Africans, or either with the occupants of Asia, or the Indians of America. But, though they are thus distinguishable from each other, the eye is of exactly the same form, and exhibits the same variety of colours amongst them all. It is the single feature in which they all most nearly agree. The difference between them in point of spoken or written language are incalculable-so great,that the dialect of one nation sounds like an unintelligible jargon in the ears of another; but the eye speaks in every country the same tongue. It answers in the uncivilized tracts of the earth the same purpose which the Latin or French accomplishes among the cultivated communities; it is the universal channel of communication when no other exists. It smiles, it chides, it animates, it soothes, it attracts, it repels, it commands, it weeps; and in all its changes it exercises an influence which neither gesture nor diction can rival.

There are numbers of persons in the world whose general appearance is far from being prepossessing. By the way, they have been materially lessened within the last thirty years in those countries in which vaccination has been adopted. But even amongst those who cannot boast of a beautiful face, we very often see the want of that charm almost compensated by an eye of uncommon loveliness. We may often hear it said in

society," She has very ordinary features, indeed, but what a beautiful eye!" It is true that, under such circumstances, the circle of its attractions is limited, but they are its own, and they are never without a certain degree of power. There was, therefore, as little of truth as of gallantry in the verses in which Carew told Celia, that it was his poetical praise of her that gave wings to her fame.

"That killing power is none of thine,

I gave it to thy voice and eyes:
Thy sweets, thy graces all are mine;
Thou art my star, shin'st in my skies;
Then dart not, from thy borrowed sphere,
Lightning on him that fix'd thee there."

We suppose that the following is one of the stanzas in which he imparted to Celia some of the fame of which he speaks:

“Ask me no more where those stars light,
That downward fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become as in their sphere."

Even the eyes of a gracefully finished statue, such, for instance, as the Venus of Canova, or the Orphan, which may now be seen at the exhibition of the Society of British Artists, have an intelligence in them, though altogether devoid of lustre. There is a tear upon the lid of the latter, which, though all marble as it is, yet seems as if in a moment it would fall upon her cheek. It seems to come from the heart of the child, and to paint in the most eloquent language the feeling of desolation, which at the moment is supposed to predominate in her mind.

The human eye is terrible to look upon when fired by anger; but how painful to contemplate it when it speaks of a mind dethroned! It has then an unearthly look, which makes us doubt whether we behold a being of this or of some other world.

The power of perfect vision is undoubtedly one of the most precious gifts, next to reason itself, which heaven has presented to man. It enables him to behold the light, the starry heavens, the green earth, the blue sea, the multitude of beautiful tints which distinguish flowers, and exhibit them in a raiment more splendid than " Solomon in all his glory." What a severe privation then must it be to lose one's sight! What an affliction to have the soul as it were imprisoned, or at least confined to a comparatively narrow circle of resources! Milton's lamentation for the loss of his sight is well known:

Lis Thus with the year
Seasons return; but not to me return
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine."

It is not, however, so well known that his eyes were originally injured by his unwearied exertions in his office when he served under Crom

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well. He lost them, he says in a sonnet addressed to his friend, Cyriac Skinner,

Overplied

In liberty's defence, my noble task,

Of which all Europe rings from side to side.” There are no descriptions of natural scenery more beautiful than some of those which we find in the Paradise Lost: doubtless these were dictated from the author's fervent recollection-the more fervent because he had no means of renewing them-of the images which he had stored up in his mind before blindness became his bitter portion. Nevertheless we have only to read the poems of Blacklock to be convinced that persons born blind, by whatever means they accomplish it, may sometimes exercise the power of describing natural scenery with as much accuracy, and, what is more extraordinary, with as much enthusiasm, as writers whose vision never was impaired.

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There is not a more interesting chapter in the whole history of man, than that which displays his successful pursuit of knowledge under the numerous difficulties which blindness interposes in his way. By a variety of means, which which it is unnecessary here to detail, they have learned the alphabet, arithmetic, and geography, and to play on the violin and piano. There are very few persons, perhaps, who are acquainted with the fact, that Huber, the author of the most minute, the most accurate, and by far the most popular treatise that has been yet written upon bees, was blind from his earliest infancy. Such a work as this would seem to require in the writer of it eyes of the very best description, yet it is understood that he had no other assistance while engaged in collecting the materials of it than that which he derived from his domestic,. who mentioned to him the colour of the insect. Their form and size he ascertained by touch with wonderful facility. A Frenchman of the name of Lesuer, learned to read, to compose with characters in relief, to print; he was quite a master of his native language, of geography and music. There was a young cabinet-maker at Ingolstadt, who, having lost his sight by an explosion of gunpowder, employed himself in constructing pepper-mills, spècimens of which may now be seen in the gallery of Munich. The guide tells you that he manufactured them without the assistance of any other instrument than a common knife.

In the Digby family there was a preceptor who surpassed the ablest players at chess, and shot arrows at long distances, with such precision as almost never to miss his mark. “He constantly went abroad," says Sir Kenelm, "without a guide, and frequented most of the public promenades; he regularly took his place at table, and ate with such dexterity, that it was impossible to perceive he was blind; when any one spoke to him for the first time, he was able to tell with certainty his stature and the form of his body; and when his pupils recited in his presence, he knew in what situation and attitude they were.” Holman, the celebrated blind traveller, is another

instance of this kind. M. de Piles mentions a native of Cambassy, in Tuscany, who was an excellent designer. By means of touch alone he could seize with precision the form and proportions of the original. His portraits were striking likenesses. A nobleman, who suspected he was not quite blind, in order to put the matter to the test, caused the artist to take his portrait in a dark cave. The resemblance was perfect. A Dutch organist, who was blind from his early youth, became remarkably skilful in his profession. He also acquired the habit of distinguishing by the touch the different kinds of money, and even some colours. He was a capital card player, for he knew not only the cards which he kept for himself, but also those which he dealt out to others! The blind are generally great chess players. One is not surprised to hear that they are very little sensible of the graces of modesty; but it is painful to know, that they are also generally remarkable for their ingratitude. This fact, however, should never prevent us from extending to them our sympathy, and rendering them all the assistance in our power. There is one who will reward us in his own way, and at his own time, for every good action we do.

It is very curious to observe the activity of that compensating power, whieh nature has provided in all those cases, where persons have either been born blind or become so at an early period of life. It ought, at the same time, to be a subject of deep thankfulness with those, who have the good fortune to possess in perfection, the most delicate, the most complicated, and the most beautiful of all our organs.

THE SENTIMENTALIST.

WHEN the generous affections have become well-nigh paralytic, we have the reign of sentimentality. The greatness, the profitableness, at any rate the extremely ornamental nature of high feeling, and the luxury of doing good; charity, love, self-forgetfulness, devotedness, and all manner of godlike magnanimity; are everywhere insisted on, and pressingly inculcated in speech and writing, in prose and verse; Socinian preachers proclaim "benevolence" to all the four winds, and have "truth" engraved on their watch-seals-unhappily, with little or no effect. Were the limbs in right walking order, why so much demonstrating of motion? The barrenest of all mortals is the sentimentalist. Granting even that he were sincere, and did not wilfully deceive us, or without first deceiving himself, what good is in him? Does he rot lie there as a perpetual lesson of despair, and type of bedrid, valetudinarian impotence? His is emphatically a virtue that has become, through every fibre, conscious of itself: it is all sick, and feels as if it were made of glass, and durst not touch or be touched. In the shape of work it can do nothing; at the utmost, by incessant nursing and caudling, keep itself alive.-Edinburgh Review.