224 NOTICES. NOTICES. UPHAM'S MENTAL PHILOSOPHY.-Elements of Mental Philosophy, embracing the two departments of the Intellect and Sensibilities, in two Volumes. By Thomas C. Upham, Professor of Mental and Moral Philosophy in Bowdoin College. New York. Harper & Brothers. 1841.-The first particular in which this differs from former treatises on the same subject, is the three-fold division under which it contemplates the Mind, viz., the Intellect, the Sensibilities, and the Will. The usual division has been into the Understanding and the Will. This rendered the science perplexing to the student. It gave mental philosophy no appearance of orderly division and arrangement. Why the Sensibilities should be classed under the Will or the Intellect, no writer could satisfactorily explain, and no pupil could clearly perceive. Whereas the instant the mind lights upon the division of Mr. Upham, the whole subject is simpli fied, and is easily and pleasantly pursued by the pupil. Thought, Feeling, and Action or Volition, are states of mind into which may be resolved all that comes within the sphere of human consciousness. These are Mr. Upham's divisions in his work on Mental Philosophy. The propriety of this distinction is made very plain, in the first volume of the work; or rather, it is illustrated in a satisfactory manner, for it seems to us no argument is necessary to render it plain. What consciousness approves, needs no vindication. The first volume treats of the Intellect. It is the Intellect that perceives; as for example, while I look at the paper before me and watch the motions of my pen, I refer certain slight sensations produced in my mind by the letters as they are formed, to the moving pen, and the paper; and my notice of the letters as the causes of these slight sensations is denominated perception. When the mind dwells on an absent object till similar mental impressions are made as when the objects were present, the mental state is called conception. The states of mind are classed under intellectual states of an external origin, (such as the preceding,) and intellectual states of an internal origin. The internal states are, original suggestionsuch as the ideas of existence, personal identity, unity, duration, eternity, space, power, right and wrong; consciousness, which is an internal intellectual state, as it properly has no direct relation to any thing extraneous to the mind. Here is a very subtle distinction, which our readers would hardly be at the pains to trace. Relative Suggestion or Judgment, Reasoning and Imagination, are placed under this head. The Sensibilities are represented by Mr. Upham as distinguished from the intellect in the form of antecedent and sequent, as objects must be perceived by the intellect before the sensibilities can be awakened. The sensibilities are divided into the natural and the moral, concerning which he makes the following remarks: "When we use the term heart as expressive of a part of our mental nature, we commonly have reference to the natural or pathematic sensibilities; when we use the term conscience, we have reference to our moral sensibilities; so that the distinction now in question is obviously involved in the common usage of language. In truth, all the considerations, consciousness, the ordinary structure of language, and the incidental as well as the more formal and considerate remarks of writers, which were formerly brought forward to show the distinction between the intellect and the sensibilities, in the more extended sense of the latter term, may also be adduced to show a well-founded distinction between the natural and the moral sensibilities." The natural sensibilities are subdivided into emotions and desires, the former preceding and giving rise to the latter. It will interest our readers to peruse the following remarks on the emotions of beauty: "There are many objects which excite the emotion of beauty; that is, when the objects are presented, this emotion, in a greater or less degree, immediately exists. These objects we call beautiful. There are other objects which, so far from exciting pleasant emotions within us, are either indifferent, or cause feelings of a decidedly opposite character, so that we speak of them as deformed or disgusting. If there were no emotions, pleasant or unpleasant, excited by either of these classes, or if the emotions which they cause were of the same kind, we should apply to them the same epithets. So that the ground of distinction, which, in speaking of these different objects, we never fail to make, appears to exist in our own feelings. In other words, we call an object beautiful because it excites within us pleasant emotions, which, in the circumstances of the case, we cannot well ascribe to any other cause. And when we prefer to say, in other terms, that an object has beauty, we obviously mean the same thing, viz., that the object has a trait or quality (perhaps we may find it difficult to explain precisely what it is) which causes these emotions." As we are crowded into a small space for present notices, we will defer other remarks on this volume; as we shall have occasion to notice hereafter another production of this author, on the Will, which we have not yet perused. A PLEA FOR THE INTEMPERATE. By David M. Reese, M. D., late Professor of the Theory and Practice of Physic in the Albany Medical College. New York. John S. Taylor & Co. 1841.-This little volume is designed to excite pity for the intemperate, who are represented as the victims of a dreadful disease, induced by the use of strong drinks, and whose pains are allayed for the time by alcohol. At the same time the intellect of the inebriate is enfeebled, and he can no longer summon to his aid the mental and moral energy he once possessed to battle with his foe. The Doctor deems a Hospital or Sober-house an all-important means of effecting the cure of this most unforshould be treated as a monomaniac, and should receive nothing tunate class of patients. He thinks every habitual drunkard should be soothed, reasoned with, restrained, and induced to but kindness and sympathy in public and private-that he pledge himself to total abstinence by a bond, in the following form: A. B. of the first part, and C. D. of the second part, witnesseth, "This agreement made this day of 1841, between that A. B. is held and bound to C. D. in the following pledge and obligation, that from and after the date hereof A. B. consents and promises, that he will not allow himself, under any pretext whatever, to drink any form of ardent spirits, or wine, or porter, or beer, or cider, or any other intoxicating liquors, (except only the sacramental use of wine,) so long as I live. "The condition of the above obligation is such that if the said A. B. shall so far forget himself at any time hereafter, as to violate in a single instance this his voluntary promise, he will promptly confess his sin to C. D. or one of the parties who are witnesses, and whose names are hereunto annexed, and again renew his bond; or failing to do so, and to observe his vow of total abstinence thereafter, he hereby consents that this instrument of writing may be used and produced as the evidence of his guilt and shame, and a testimony that he has broken a solemn vow deliberately and religiously made; thereby forfeiting his sacred honor, by violating an agreement entered into in the presence of God Almighty, and witnessed by the friends who with him have signed their names. "In testimony whereof the said A. B. has hereunto affixed his hand and seal in the presence of his friend C. D. and other witnesses. So help him God. "Witnesses. Tempe reposes between two lofty mountains, called Just now we were gazing at the beauties and breath-Ossa and Olympus, which seem to have been ruptured ing the fragrance of blushing spring. She came forth and repelled asunder by supreme power. The valley after lingering months of preparation, bringing inimita- | environed around, stretches forty furlongs, while its ble graces in her train. With ecstasy we watched her breadth is not so many poles. Through the very midst changing aspects, waited on her movements, plucked flows the Peneus, a river swollen in its progress by the first blossom of the season, receiving it, perchance, tributary streams, which pour their small contributions as a token of God's kindness-a fresh offering of his into its channel. The vale is by nature's own hand, paternal love. threaded with innumerable or various walks or paths, But spring is gone, and is succeeded by laughing || curiously and beautifully wrought when the valley was summer, whose features are all blithesome. Her mood | opened to the light of day. Evergreens and shrubbery is merry, and her tones are mirthful. She tunes all her harps, and pours ten thousand strains of melody upon every passing breeze. The horn of plenty is by her side, and mortals are made happy by the sight of it. He who adorns, also fructifies the earth, that while the eye is charmed, life may be sustained. Now, at the divine command, all the secret powers of nature are in labor. The soil on every square inch of earth's pro-spreads the verdant scene, which every one is in rapductive territory is busily ministering nourishment to tures as he pauses to gaze thereon. Over the plain the plants upon its surface. The sun-beams journey and around the dells, groves of trees and shrubbery indownward with unwearied diligence, that they may termingle and form enchanting arbors, where, during bear a part in the kindly ministration. God sendeth the sultry hours, all repair and enjoy the luxurious rethese upon the errands of his love, and well and unre-treat. Frequent fountains gush forth, and flowing in mittingly do they execute his bidding. abound herein; not artificially trained, but growing in the rich luxuriance of unformed beauty, entwining the trees, creeping up the precipices, and with pliant and pendent charms, equaling or o'ertopping their firm props. The bind-weed shoots up every way, nourished by mountain soil, and spreading its shady covering over the rude rock, all reposing together undisturbed. Here charming rivulets and purest streams of cool, sweet We should cultivate a relish for the charms of na-water, wind through the enchanted valley. How brature. They are pictures drawn by God's own pencil. cing to the enervated to plunge into these waters, and Their conception as well as execution is his own, and feel their renovating power pervade the weakened frame! therefore they display the mind of their great Author. Birds of the most delicate and brilliant plumage, perchThe doctrine of a particular providence adds indescri-ed in pairs on the waving boughs, gleefully utter their bable interest to all the works of nature. This is a doc-notes; especially some can swell their notes to the trine of Scripture. Our Savior vindicates it: "If God so clothe the grass of the field, will he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?" encouraging our trust in God by the very sentiment which some defectively taught Christians deny. sweetest melodies, and pour their music upon the ear of charmed and enraptured travelers-who listen forgetful of care and toil-and go on their way refreshed by the soothing harmony. Each rivulet is sweetly enameled with one or two of the paths just spoken of. In a late excursion, the beauty of the scenery carried The beautiful river, Peneus, with placid majesty flows me almost out of myself. I wondered how any person along through the midst of the vale, its current as genwho can afford a residence in the country, should once tle and even as purified oil. Its borders are graced with think of enduring the seclusion of the city in the sum- flowers; and groves of indigenous trees hang out their mer time. I say seclusion of the city; for to be shut lofty branches, and spread their deep shade over the out from nature is real seclusion. O give me the fresh traveler who walks on the verge, or sails on the bosom breezes, and sheltering groves, and green fields, and of the fairy stream, and zephyrs breathe gently all along. gushing fountains, and purling streams, and the hill-tops The dwellers in this vale meet as friends, offer in sweet and vallies of these Miami regions, where I may breathe concert their sacrifices, and in cheerful parties, enjoy freely, and be charmed by the music of birds, and drink unstinted the generous wine. Often their numerous in pleasure with every sense, before all the constrained altar sacrifices, and the incense liberally cast thereon, and factitious delights of pent-up city life! spread in the smoke of their hallowed fires, till fragrant In the city we have this poor relief-we can enter-odors fill the vale, and the travelers by land and watain ourselves with pictures of the scenes from which ter, inhale an atmosphere worthy of the gods. Vol. I.-29 226 EXCURSION TO THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. Original. for one hundred miles in every direction. Many a EXCURSION TO THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. mother fell bleeding under the tomahawk-many an BY PROFESSOR LARRABEE. infant was dashed against the stones. A company was formed at Boston, under one of the most intrepid leadTHE White Mountains of New Hampshire form a ers of those brave times, for the purpose of breaking up conspicuous and interesting point in the scenery of New this haunt of merciless savages. They went prepared England. From earliest childhood I had gazed on to effect their purpose, or perish in the attempt. They their ærial summits with admiration and wonder. From made their way through an unbroken wilderness, more the hill near which I first opened my eyes on this beau- than fifty miles beyond the frontiers; found their enetiful world, I might see, far above and beyond the tow-mies in their native recess; posted themselves by a small ers and steeples of the distant city that arose in that lake that admitted of no retreat; and there fought, some direction, the snow-colored peaks of those magnificent of them in single combat by deliberate challenge, till hills. When I left the place of my birth, and went scarcely one on either side was left to tell the story. many miles east, to spend the maturer days of child-The trunks of the trees, yet standing on the borders of hood, there still towered up before me those noble piles. the lake, attest after the lapse of a century the desperFrom the hills that skirted the evergreen plains, on ate conflict, of which they are the only surviving witwhich was located the venerable institution where I spent nesses. Countless marks are yet seen, where the ball the maturer days of youth, these mountains might lodged in their trunks, and has been since extracted by still be seen. And when I had become a man, and set- the curious or the idle. tled in my own humble cottage, on a hill far from the After viewing this memorable battle-ground, and restocean-dashed cliff where I had listened to the incessant ing for a night in the hospitable mansion of a veneraroaring of the waves, there still rose up in solitary gran- ||ble and honorable friend, we proceeded on our way, up deur, far above all intervening peaks, the granite sum- || the valley of the Saco, winding among precipitous hills, mit of Mount Washington. Nor could I travel in any exhibiting at every turn the most varied scenery. When direction without encountering, often as I ascended an near the celebrated notch, where the hills approach so eminence, the distant view of these everlasting moun- near the river's brink as to leave scarcely room for a tains. They had become associated with the dreams carriage, we suddenly met a thunder storm. The river of childhood, the reveries of youth, and the sober dashing along from rock to rock-the hills towering thoughts of manhood. I had often looked, at evening, precipitously high up beyond the dark clouds—the rain on those lofty peaks, looming up into the clear sky, pouring down in torrents—the thunder redoubled maniilluminated by the rays of the setting sun, and won-fold by its reverberation among the hills, and the lightdered what might be concealed among their dark ravines and gloomy dells-what scenes of picturesque beauty might be enjoyed from their bright summits-what "better land," what fairy region might lie beyond. In the summer of 1836, having a few weeks of leisure, I resolved to visit these mountains. In company with several friends, I started on the excursion. We proceeded through a delightful country of varied scenery-lofty hills, deep vallies, broad rivers, and mountain torrents-till on the second day we arrived at Fryeburg, on the Saco river, thirty miles from the White Mountains, although it appears at their very base. Fryeburg is one of the most lovely spots on earth. It is a village of about one hundred houses, in a beautiful valley, through which the Saco winds with a course so meandering, as to make a distance of more than thirty miles within sight of the village. This valley is encircled by lofty hills, rising one above another, with the White Mountains towering above the whole. Lovely, quiet, and peaceful as this place now appears, it was once the theatre of one of the most desperate and bloody battles that history or tradition has ever recorded. A century ago, this was the home of the Saco Indians, the most warlike and powerful of all the tribes of the north. It was also the grand rendezvous of all the hostile tribes in this region, and was the principal link in the chain of communication between the tribes of New England and those of Canada. From this point they issued out in hostile incursions, carrying death to the settlements ning leaping from peak to peak, formed altogether a scene sublime beyond description. The whole company, overwhelmed by their emotions, involuntarily stopped, in the open road. One of them, unable to restrain his feelings, leaped from his carriage, fell on his knees, then prostrated his face to the earth, and uttered ejaculations of admiration to the name of Jehovah. It was near this spot, where a few years before, a whole family had been overwhelmed by an avalanche from the mountain. A slide had started from the summit, and come down with resistless force, bearing the huge rocks and trees with it. It was night. The family, as it is supposed, were aroused from sleep by the thundering approach of the avalanche. They leaped from their beds, they fled from their home, they ran for their lives, but rushed into the grasp of death. The avalanche, just before it reached the house, divided, going off in different directions, leaving the house uninjured, but overtaking the family, and burying every one of them deep beneath the ruins of the mountain. The house was standing when we passed. No living creature was seen about it, but a solitary mouse, which we scared from one of the deserted rooms. A few miles beyond this spot we came to the narrow defile called the notch. Here the river, now dwindled to a brook which a child might leap over, makes its way through a pass so narrow, as to afford but barely sufficient space for a carriage, while on each side the granite cliffs rise to a great height, sometimes perpen THE LOVED AND THE LOST. soul. �་་ Original. 227 THE LOVED AND THE LOST. BY J. T. BRAME. dicular, and sometimes jutting over as if about to fall | nificent hills on which my eye rested from childhood, and crush the unwary traveler. After passing the notch, for the equally magnificent plains of Indiana. But we came to an open but elevated plain, where we found still the beauty and grandeur of the view from Mount a comfortable house of entertainment. Here we rested Washington, form a vivid picture on which I love to for the night, intending to ascend the mountain in the look. This picture seems to form a part of my very morning. Arising in the morning bright and early, It is to me, one of the connecting links that bind we procured a guide, and prepared for the ascent. We the present to the memory of the past. plunged into a dense forest of evergreen, and with many a weary step clambered up the steep ascent. As we proceeded, the trees became "few and far between," and dwindled to mere dwarfs. After climbing up, up, up, for a distance of about two miles, we reached the summit of the first mountain. This was a plain of great extent, commanding a fine view in every direction. Here we saw the summit of Mount Washing- FAST fade the prospects fair of human hope, ton, the highest of the group, distant four miles. For And earthly love lies buried in the dust! more than three miles the path lay along this elevated|| What David but has lost his Jonathan, table-land, with slight depressions and elevations, though The brother of his soul? Who but has bow'd gradually rising, exhibiting new views of distant scene- And wept in sorrow's keenness o'er the wreck ry with every change of position, till we reached the Wrought in affection's circle by the hand foot of the last peak, that of Mount Washington itself. Of the stern conqueror-desolation's lord? Here we rested for awhile, and took a refreshing drink Who but has followed to the narrow house of water from the clearest and coldest spring I ever Some cherished object of his heart of hearts? saw. Thus prepared we commenced the tedious ascent, These are thy triumphs, Time! and these, O Death! over naked rocks, broken into countless fragments, piled || The trophies that adorn thy gloomy realm, one above another, and bleached by the storms of ages. || And mark thy wide domain. At last we gained the highest peak of this enormous pyramid. The atmosphere was clear, only a light cloud occasionally passed over the sun. This, however, added to the interest of the scene. The flitting shadow of a cloud, moving rapidly over the mountain, and traced in its progress for many miles, as it was borne south by the north wind, was a spectacle which I had often admired in a hilly country, but which I had never before seen on so grand a scale. The loved and lost, Illumes the parting hour, and points the saint Original. THE moonlight is on Laura's grave; The view from Mount Washington combines the And Christian hope doth light her radiant torch beautiful, the grand, and the sublime. You have before|| At the pure altar of eternal truth— you, on the south, the Saco, winding its devious passage among precipitous hills, until it escapes in the broad plains of Fryeburg. Far away in the south is spread out before you the illimitable Atlantic. On the east you see the Androscoggin, its clear waters reflecting the light like a mirror of silver, winding for many miles through an unbroken wilderness, then issuing out among cultivated fields and beautiful villages. On the west you see, far over the hills, the valley of the Connecticut, and the distant range of the Green Mountains beyond. On the north you look on an ocean of mountains of various forms and sizes, covered with forests of every variety of evergreen. So elevated is Mount Washington above all other hills in the neighborhood, that you may look down on every object as far as the laws of vision will permit. I recognized many a town, lake and stream, which I had known in the regions below. I looked for my own humble cottage, three days' journey distant, but it was lost in the dimness of distance. I can never forget my visit to those magnificent piles of nature's own forming. Years have since passed away. In the meantime I have exchanged the mag There soft the south wind blows- A lone bird carols to the night A cool stream murmurs there; As moonlight hours that were. A tone thrills back from vanished days, Again my Laura's face appears, O, LET it be Where summer birds will come and bring And poised upon their golden wing The requiem of the early dead will sing! O! make her tomb Deep in the vale where zephyrs blow And roses bloom; Where rippling waters sweetly flow, She was not made To linger in this world of gloom Where all things fade Where death winds kiss the rosy bloom O! come and bring, Ye beauteous ones that for her sigh, And strew them, with a tearful eye, Let fall your tears, And they, like stars, shall light the gloom Shall form a rainbow o'er the tomb To cheer the darkness of your coming doom. DESCRIPTION. JOIN'D to the prattle of the purling rills, Full in the passage of the vale above; Original. HOPE AND MEMORY. BY JOHN T. BRAME. I SAW a fair young child He sat by a streamlet's bank and smiled A beautiful spirit was by his side, With radiant wings, and cheek all dyed With beauty's hues; and she sweeps the strings I saw that fair young child once more He sat not then by the streamlet's shore, And I saw that fair young child again- That in other days shed such delight? She hath spread her wings and taken her flight- Where nought but shadowy forms were seen to move She fleeth not, though the grave is near— As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood; Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro, She hovereth over the old man's bed, The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard to Each pleasure past she maketh his own, flow. Thither continual pilgrims crowded still, From all the roads of earth that pass thereby; For as they chanc'd to breathe on neighb'ring hill, And she kindleth again his fading eye "ALL, all on earth is shadow, all beyond |