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of neighborhood closer; a town would then be a town for an intellectual and humane purpose also, and we should love and respect our neighbors more. Obviously, it would be very easy for every town to discharge this truly municipal duty. Every one of us would gladly contribute his share ; and the more gladly, the more considerable the institution had become.

In Europe, where the feudal form of society secures the permanence of wealth in certain families, those families in each town buy and preserve these things and throw them open to the public. That is the reason why our own countrymen of taste and education desire to go to Europe - to visit the galleries and libraries that are there preserved in a hundred palaces. But in America, where democratic institutions regularly divide every great estate into small portions again after a few years, it is necessary that the public should step into the place of these permanent proprietors, and a lyceum, a public library, a public gallery, should exist in every town and village for the education and inspiration of all the individuals.

2. Certainly, not aloof from this homage to beauty, but in strict connexion therewith, the house will come to be esteemed a Sanctuary. The language of a ruder age has given to common law the maxim that every man's house is his castle: the progress of truth will make every house a shrine. Will not man one day open his eyes and see how dear he is to the soul of Nature - how near it is to him ? Will he not rise above the fogs that blind him, and see that Law prevails forever and ever ; that his private being is a part of it ; that its home is in his own unsounded heart; that his economy, his labor, his good and bad fortune, his health and manners, are all a curious and exact demonstration in miniature of the Genius of the Eternal Providence ? When he perceives the Law, he ceases to despond. Whilst he sees it, every thought and act of his is raised, and becomes an act of religion. Does the consecration of Sunday confess of the desecration of the entire week? Does the consecration of the church confess the profanation of the house ? Let us read the incantation backward. Let the man stand on his feet. Let religion cease to be occasional. And the pulses of thought that go to the borders of the universe, let them proceed from the bosom of the Household. These are the consolations - these are the ends to which the

household is instituted, and the rooftree stands. If these are sought, and in any good degree attained, can the State, can commerce, can climate, can the labor of many for one, yield anything better, or half as good ? Beside these aims, Society is weak and the State an intrusion. I think that the heroism which at this day would make on us the impression of Epaminondas and Phocion must be that of a domestic conqueror. He who shall bravely and gracefully subdue this Gorgon of Convention and Fashion, and show men how to lead a clean, handsome and heroic life amid the beggarly elements of our cities and villages ; whoso shall teach me how to eat my meat, and take my repose, and deal with

any shame following, will restore the life of man to splendor, and make his own name dear to all history.

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CORREGGIO'S MAGDALEN.

BY J. A.

She lies at length along the scented ground,

One hand lost in a cloud of falling hair,
One undergrasps the book : there is no sound

Nor motion in the air.

Her parted lips move not, but ever seem

Like one who, sleeping, hears not, breathes not,
Lest any breath should break his trancing dream

And make his bliss forgot.

She reads the story which the Sibyl kept,

Ere, in her anger at the world's disdain,
The eager wind with fatal fingers swept

The scroll of Saturn's reign.

Beside me sat one of the few, one gifted
To draw some keen rays from the sun of Truth,
And guide them to the freezing hearts of men;
Whose mind, full, ardent, to his race o'erflowing,
And by vocation given to heavenly themes,
Asked but one genial touch to wake to music,
And sing, like Memnon, of a fairer morning,
Which knows no cloud, nor leads to sultry noon.

THE MORAL DIAGNOSIS OF DISEASE.

BY A PENITENT INVALID.

I.

suures.

I KNEW that I was convalescent on a certain day when I caught a clear glimpse of the criminal career I had been pursuing, all the while supposing myself, supposed by others, a martyr. What had I committed ? I had leagued myself with such banditti as Ague, Fever, Liver-disease; with them had waylaid my nearest friends and relatives and robbed them of their inestimable trea

It was the least of my villainies that I picked my father's pocket and buried its hard-earned contents in a doctor's shop ; in the silence of night I vastated my mother's nerves, and, by robbing her of sleep, pilfered several years of her life ; one-third of the rest I poisoned with headache. Yet I was a hugged assassin — they were betrayed with kisses !

One day it struck me that something the Devil was the matter !

Whereupon an introspective diagnosis revealed the suspected cloven-foot all along palate, stomach and liver. He had passed in under cover of mince-pie, of fruit-cake; he had lurked in late suppers, and never failed to slip into the last half of the second cup of coffee. When once in, he turned “bowels of mercies" into thumbscrews and racks for myself and every one around me. Thus because I had not taken the trouble to know the simplest laws of my own nature, or had not practised the slightest rules of selfdenial, I had spanseled everybody in the house with my biliary duct, and frozen up the wells of contentment with my chills. My ague came down on our domestic peace like an iceberg on a small craft; my fever came, a tropical monsoon, to wither and blight the flowers of our home.

Then I began to see things as they are. I repented ; I armed myself against the wiles of the Evil One. In many tempting forms he came, in rich food, in cramping fashions, in total-abstinence fanaticisms ; I quenched his fire-darts in Holy Water.

But I found that my penitence would be in vain, and my life of health a perpetual battle, unless I should take the Sacraments. In the Church of Health I found that there were two Sacraments, both necessary.

The first is the Lord's Supper. The difficulty with most

suppers is, that they are not arranged with reference to the Lord within us : they are the Palate’s and the Belly's Suppers ; and they are such stuff as the Lord has come very low to bless and break. That which we eat and drink should be His very body and blood.

The second Sacrament is Baptism. This must be by immersion, not sprinkling, and in cool water. All water is holy water; it is a crystal stream flowing out from the everlasting Throne ; it is a river that makes glad the city of God. It is sent to wash our sins away ; in it is health, and health is Religion.

II.

Van Vulture, my neighbor, assisted by a preacher who comes daily to tell him how much more the Lord loveth those chastened with dyspepsia than those who have godless eupeptic stomachs, has been perched for more than a year upon his wife and children, preying on their vitals. The uttered prayers for his restoration, the unuttered ones for his flight to happier spheres, have been unanswered : Van Vulture recovers not, flies not,

“Still is sitting, still is sitting," with beak active upon his devoted Promethea Vincta and her children.

The other day I called on them. The wife and children were dining on a venerable loaf of bread and equally venerable remnant of ham — indeed, the whole room as well as the table reminded me of Hogarth's Tailpiece : here were broken chairs, worn-out brooms, cracked glasses, etc. As I went up stairs to see the invalid who was the artist in this case, I could scarcely suppress a hope that he would complete it as Hogarth did his, by adding his own palette broken! When I approached Van V., I found him serenely dining on a brace of partridges, some East India sweetmeats and vermicelli, and a bottle of cabinet champagne at his side. good Lord,” he remarked, “has sent me quails on my way through the wilderness of affliction."

Presently Mrs. Van V. entered the sick-room, looking pale enough to take the place of her prostrate husband. She was bonneted and gloved.

Mrs. Van V. My dear, I thought I would take our little Kitty on a little walk. If

you wish anything, please knock on the floor for Bridget. (Handing poker.)

Mr. Van V. (Eyes turned up desolately to the ceiling, with an affectation unknown outside of sick-rooms) H-e-i-g-h-h-o-o.

Exit Mrs. Van Vulture, to return in one minute and fifteen seconds, bonnetless and gloveless ; little Kitty with red eyes sits at the window with the everlasting transparent slate in her hands.

“Van Vulture," cried I, “ have you ever read much about Dr. Johnson?"

· No, sir.”

• He was a man who made some profound remarks, sir, — very profound remarks, though some of them were quite brutal. Amongst other things, he once said, Every man is a rascal when he is sick. Good morning, sir !

I heard subsequently that I was for this voted“ a brute" by the neighbors, and prayed for by Van Vulture's consoler, the Rer. Choker Bronchitis ; yet I am convinced that Doctor Johnson's remark is the only saving clause in the case of Van V. and hundreds like him ; and that if it were not for that truth, they should be treated as we would treat any savages whom we met hearing the scalps of men, women and children on their wipers.

III.

The pale victims bound on the altar of the invalid could tell us some close truths, if only the bands and ligatures of affection and self-devotion were removed. As it is, the artless truth will slip out occasionally. Very many times do we hear affectionate relatives excuse all manner of petulance, jealousy, suspicion, discourtesy, and general disagreeableness, by saying, “ Poor man, his dyspepsia is very bad this year !”

Reader, I will here confide to you a private theological opinion of my own, one which you will not find in the Institutes of Calvin or Watson, nor even with Dr. Channing: it is this, that Dyspepsia and the Devil are one and the same Being.

This I discovered on losing a friend a few months since, through a little fit of indigestion which he had. I have been careful since to find before I speak to a friend whether his ear happens at the time to be in his head or his epigastric region.

How many ugly family quarrels, verging upon poker and broomstick, have arisen from mince-pies shared lovingly at ven the night before! In the Persian Litany it is said, “O Mezdam, save us from the fetters of dark and evil matter !

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