tation no less by their undaunted intrepidity than by the wisdom of their frugal and economical policy. Let us follow their example, and be equally happy. PATRICK HENRY. THE IMPOSSIBLE. ETURNED as it were from the dead, Columbus the visionary was welcomed as the conqueror; the needy adventurer was recognized as admiral of the Western ocean and viceroy of a new continent, was received in solemn state by the haughtiest sovereigns in the world, rising at his approach, and invited (Castilian punctilio overcome by intellectual power) to be seated before them. He told his wondrous story, and exhibited as vouchers for its truth the tawny savages and the barbaric gold. King, queen and court sunk on their knees, and the Te Deum sounded as for some glorious victory. But now, if in the stillness of that night to this man-enthusiast, dreamer, believer as he was-there had suddenly appeared some Nostradamus of the fifteenth century, of prophetic mind instinct with the future, and had declared to the ocean-compeller that not four centuries would elapse before that vast intervening gulf of waters, from the farther shore of which through months of tempest he had just groped back his weary way, should interpose no obstacle to the free communication of human thought, that a man standing on the western shore of Europe should within three hundred and seventy years from that day engage in conversation with his fellow standing on the eastern shore of the newfound world; nay-marvel of all marvels! that the same fearful bolt which during his terrible voyage had so often lighted up the waste of waters around him should itself become the agent of communication across that storm-tossed ocean, that mortal creatures, unaided by angel or demon, without intervention of heaven or pact with hell, should bring that lightning under domestic subjection, and employ it, as they might some menial or some carrier-dove, to bear their daily messages,-to a prediction so wildly extravagant, so surpassingly absurd, as that, what credence could even Columbus lend? That night, in the silence of his chamber, what thoughts may have thronged on Columbus's mind! What exultant emotions must have swelled his heart! A past world had deemed the eastern hemisphere the entire habitable earth. Age had succeeded to age, century had passed after century, and still the interdict had been acquiesced in that westward beyond the mountain-pillars it belonged not to man to explore. And yet he, the chosen of God to solve the greatest of terrestrial mysteries, affronting what even the hardy mariners of Palos had regarded as certain destruction-he. the hopeful one where all but himself despaired-had wrested from the deep its mighty secret, had accomplished what the united voice of the past, had declared to be an impossible achieve- cle from God, was impossible. ment. What answer to such a prophetic vision may we imagine that he, with all a life's experience of a man's short-sightedness, would have given? Probably some reply. like this: that, though in the future many strange things might be, such a tampering with Nature as that, short of a direct mira ROBERT DALE OWEN. THIS SENECA. HIS philosopher and poet was born 7 B. C, at Cordova, in Spain. He was the tutor of Nero, and attempted during that emperor's reign to check his tyranny and 'vices, but without avail. He became wealthy, and Nero, coveting his possessions, sent a band of soldiers to kill him, giving him the choice of the manner of his death. He re ceived his slayers calmly, comforting his wife and friends by the precepts of philosophy. He permitted his wife, at her own request, to die with him, and at the same time the veins in their arms were opened and they expired together. Thus died Seneca, A. D. 65. IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. The soul of man is great and generous, admitting no other bounds to be set to her than what are common with God. She claims for her country the universe, the whole convex wherein are included the lands and the seas, wherein the air, expending itself between the earth and the heavens, conjoins them both. Nor does she suffer herself to be confined to any number of years. All years, says she, are mine. No age is locked up from the penetration of learned men-no time so distant or dark that is not pervious to thought. When the day shall come that will separate this composition, human and divine, I will leave this body here, where I found it, and return to the gods. Not that I am altogether absent from them even now, though detained from superior happiness by this heavy earthly clog. This short stay in mortal life is but the prelude to a better and more lasting life above. Look, then, with an intrepid eye upon that determined happy hour. It is not the last to the soul, if it be to the body. Whatever things are spread around thee, look. upon them only as the furniture of an inn. We must leave them and go on. Nature throws us out of the world as she threw us into it. We can carry nothing away with us, as we brought with us nothing into it. Nay, even a great part of that which attended us when we came into the world must be thrown off. This skin which Nature threw over us as a veil must be stripped off; our flesh, and our blood that so wonderfully circulates through every part of it, must be dispersed, as also the solids, the bones and nerves which supported the fluids and weaker parts. That day which men are apt to dread as their last is but the birthday of an eternity. You will then say you lived in darkness before when you shall behold the full glories of that light which now thou seest dimly through the narrow circles of the eyes, and yet at so great a distance as to fill the mind with admiration and astonishment. How, then, will it amaze you when I say you shall behold that divine light in its full spread of glory in heaven! Such a reflection as this cannot but raise the mind above every mean thought and deter us from every vile and cruel practice. It informs us the gods are witnesses of all our actions; it commands us to make ourselves acceptable to them, to prepare ourselves for communion with them, and have always eternity in view; which whoever hath any conception of, he dreads no enemies: he hears the trumpet's sound undismayed. Nor can all the threats in the world terrify his manly soul, for why should he be afraid of anything? THE HERMIT. AR in a wild unknown to pub- | For yet by swains alone the world he knew, lic view, From youth to age a rever end hermit grew; The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well, Remote from man, with God he passed the days, Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. A life so sacred, such serene repose, rose: That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey, This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway; His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, And all the tenor of his soul is lost. So when a smooth expanse receives imprest Calm Nature's image on its watery breast. Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, dew He quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he bore, And fixed the scollop in his hat before; Then with the sun a rising journey went, Sedate to think, and watching each event. The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, And long and lonesome was the wild to pass; But when the southern sun had warmed the day, A youth came posting o'er a crossing way, Then, near approaching, "Father, hail!" he cried, And "Hail, my son !" the reverend sire replied. Words followed words, from question answer flowed, And talk of various kind deceived the road, And skies beneath with answering colors Till, each with other pleased and loath to glow; But if a stone the gentle scene divide, part, While in their age they differ, join in heart: Now sunk the sun, the closing hour of day To clear this doubt, to know the world by Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray. sight, To find if books or swains report it right Nature in silence bade the world repose, When near the road a stately palace rose; There by the moon through ranks of trees | Disordered stops to shun the danger near, Deep sunk in sleep and silk and heaps of The changing skies hang out their sable down. At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day Along the wide canals the zephyrs play; Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, clouds; A sound in air presaged approaching rain, And beasts to covert scud across the plain. Warned by the signs, the wandering pair retreat To seek for shelter at a neighboring seat. And shake the neighboring wood to banish 'Twas built with turrets, on a rising Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch As near the miser's heavy doors they drew Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew; And, but the landlord, none had cause of The nimble lightning mixed with showers they go, At length some pity warmed the master's | The weather courts them from the poor rebreast treat, ('Twas then his threshold first received a And the glad master bolts the wary gate. guest): Slow creaking turns the door with jealous While hence they walk the pilgrim's bogom wrought care, And half he welcomes in the shivering With all the travail of uncertain thought; pair. His partner's acts without their cause ap One frugal fagot lights the naked walls, And Nature's fervor through their limbs recalls; Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager wineEach hardly granted-served them both to dine; pear: 'Twas there a vice, and seemed a madness. here; Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes, And when the tempest first appeared to Now night's dim shades again involve the cease, A ready warning bid them part in peace. sky: Again the wanderers want a place to lie; With still remark the pondering hermit The soil improved around, the mansion neat, viewed And neither poorly low nor idly great, It seemed to speak its master's turn of mind, "And why should such," within himself he Content, and not for praise, but virtue kind. cried, In one so rich a life so poor and rude; "Lock the lost wealth a thousand want be- Hither the walkers turn with weary feet, |