is not the fountain which plays only in the gardens of the palace, but the rain of heaven, which descends alike upon the inclosures of the rich and the poor, and refreshes the meanest shrub no less than the fairest flower. The sages of antiquity seem to have believed that morality had nothing to do with religion; and Christians of the Middle Ages, that religion had nothing to do with morality: but, at the present day, we acknowledge how intimate and important is their connection. It is not views of moral fitness, by which the minds of men are at first to be affected, but by connecting their duties with the feelings and motives, the hopes and fears of Christianity. Both are necessary; the latter, to prompt and invigorate virtue; the former, to give it the beauty of knowledge and taste. It is heat that causes the germ to spring and flourish in the heart, but it is light that imparts verdure to its foliage, and their hues to its flowers.

TACITUS.

The moral sensibility of Tacitus is, we think, that particular circumstance by which he so deeply engages his reader, and is perhaps distinguished from every other writer in the same department of literature; and the scenes he was to describe peculiarly required this quality. His writings comprise a period the most corrupt within the annals of man. The reigns of the Neros, and of many of their successors, seemed to have brought together the opposite vices of extreme barbarism and excessive luxury; the most ferocious cruelty and slavish submission; voluptuousness the most effeminate, and sensuality worse than brutal. Not only all the general charities of life, but the very ties of nature were annihilated, by a selfishness the most exclusively individual. The minions of power butchered the parent, and the child hurried to thank the emperor for his goodness. The very fountains of abomination seemed to have been broken up, and to have poured over the face of society a deluge of pollution and crimes. How important, then, was it for posterity that the records of such an era should be transmitted by one, in whose personal character there should be a redeeming virtue, who would himself feel, and awaken in his readers, that disgust and abhorrence which such scenes ought to excite? Such a one was Tacitus. There is in his narrative a seriousness approaching sometimes almost to melancholy, and sometimes bursting forth in expressions of virtuous indignation. He appears always to be aware of the general complexion of

the subjects of which he is treating; and even when extraordinary instances of independence and integrity now and then present themselves, you perceive that his mind is secretly contrasting them with those vices with which his observation was habitually familiar.

In estimating, however, the moral sentiment of this historian, we are not to judge him by the present standard, elevated and improved, as it is, by Christianity. Tacitus undoubtedly felt the influence of great and prevalent errors. That war with barbarians was at all times just, and their territory and their persons the lawful prey of whatever nation could seize them, it is well known, had been always the practical maxim of the Greeks as well as the Romans. Hence we are not to be surprised that, in various passages of his work, he does not express that abhorrence of many wars in which his countrymen were engaged which we might otherwise have expected from him. This apology must especially be borne in mind as we read the life of Agricola. The invasion of Britain by the Romans was as truly a violation of the rights of justice and humanity as that of Mexico and Peru by the Spaniards, and their leader little better in principle than Cortes and Pi

Zarro.1

We have mentioned what appear to us the most striking characteristics of Tacitus. When compared with his great predecessor, he is no less excellent, but essentially different. Livy is only an historian; Tacitus is also a philosopher. The former gives you images, the latter impressions. In the narration of events, Livy produces his effect by completeness and exact particularity; Tacitus by selection and condensation.

presents to you a panorama; you have the whole scene, with all its complicated movements and various appearances, vividly before you. The other shows you the most prominent and remarkable groups, and compensates in depth what he wants in minuteness. Livy hurries you into the midst of the battle, and leaves you to be borne along by its tide; Tacitus stands with you upon an eminence where you may have more tranquillity for distinct observation; or, perhaps, when the armies have retired, walks with you over the field, points out to you the spot of each most interesting particular, and shares with you those solemn and profound emotions which you have now the composure to feel.

And how much better was our invasion of Mexico, and "annexing" (a modern phrase for stealing) Texas, which brought on the Mexican war?

MORAL TASTE.

Sensibility to beauty is in some degree common to all; but it is infinitely varied, according as it has been cultivated by habit and education. To the man whose taste has been formed on just principles, and who has been led to perceive and relish what is truly beautiful, a new world is opened. He looks abroad over nature, and contemplates the productions of art, with sentiments to which those who are destitute of this faculty are strangers. He perceives in the works of God, and in the contrivances of man, all the utility for which they were destined and adapted, in common with others; but besides this, his heart is filled with sentiments of the beautiful or the grand, according to the nature of the object. It is in literature that taste, in the more common use of the word, has its most extensive sphere, and most varied gratifications; yet whether it be exercised on nature, the fine arts, or literature, we are aware how much depends on associations with life, feeling, and human character. Why does the traveller wander with such peculiar interest over the mountains and plains of Italy and Greece, but because every spot is consecrated by the memory of great events, or presents to him the memorials of departed genius? It is for this reason that poetry peoples even solitude and desolation with imaginary life; so that, in ancient days, every forest had its Dryads, every fountain its nymphs, and the voice of the Naiades was heard in the murmuring of the streams. It is partly in reference to the same principle that deserts and mountains, where all is barrenness and solitude, raise in the mind emotions of sublimity. It is a feeling of vastness and desolation that depends in a great degree on the absense of everything having life or action. The mere modifications of nature are beautiful; the human form from its just proportions, the human face from the harmonious combinations of features and coloring; but it is only when this form is living and moving, and when this face is suffused with emotion and animated with intelligence, when the attitude and the look alike express the workings of the heart and mind, that we feel the perfect sentiment of beauty.

Thus inanimate nature, and literature in its transcripts of the aspects of nature, become most interesting by association with life and action, and above all with man. It is from descriptions of man, considered as a moral being, that even literary

taste receives many of its highest gratifications. There is a moral as well as natural beauty and grandeur. A rational agent, animated by high principles of virtue, exhibiting the most generous affections, and preferring on all occasions what is just to what is expedient, is the noblest picture which the hand of genius can present. Very few indeed are insensible to those fine touches of moral feeling which are given in our best writers; but their full effect requires not only an improved mind, but a heart in harmony with whatever is most excellent in our natures, and a lively susceptibility to moral greatness. This susceptibility is moral taste.

A CASTLE IN THE AIR.

I'll tell you, friend, what sort of wife,
Whene'er I scan this scene of life,
Inspires my waking schemes,
And when I sleep, with form so light,
Dances before my ravished sight,
In sweet aerial dreams.

The rose its blushes need not lend,
Nor yet the lily with them blend,
To captivate my eyes.

Give me a cheek the heart obeys,
And, sweetly mutable, displays

Its feelings as they rise!

Features, where pensive, more than gay,
Save when a rising smile doth play,
The sober thought you see;
Eyes that all soft and tender seem,
And kind affections round them beam,
But most of all on me;

A form, though not of finest mould,
Where yet a something you behold
Unconsciously doth please;
Manners all graceful without art,
That to each look and word impart

A modesty and ease.

But still her air, her face, each charm,
Must speak a heart with feeling warm,
And mind inform the whole;

With mind her mantling cheek must glow,
Her voice, her beaming eye must show
An all-inspiring soul.

Ah! could I such a being find,

And were her fate to mine but joined

By Hymen's silken tie,

To her myself, my all I'd give,
For her alone delighted live,

For her consent to die.

Whene'er by anxious gloom oppressed,
On the soft pillow of her breast

My aching head I'd lay;

At her sweet smile each care should cease,
Her kiss infuse a balmy peace,
And drive my griefs away.

In turn, I'd soften all her care,

Each thought, each wish, each feeling share;
Should sickness e'er invade,

My voice should soothe each rising sigh,
My hand the cordial should supply;
I'd watch beside her bed.

Should gathering clouds our sky deform,
My arms should shield her from the storm;
And, were its fury hurled,

My bosom to its bolts I'd bare,
In her defence undaunted dare
Defy the opposing world.

Together should our prayers ascend,
Together humbly would we bend,
To praise the Almighty name;
And when I saw her kindling eye
Beam upwards to her native sky,

My soul should catch the flame.
Thus nothing should our hearts divide,
But on our years serenely glide,
And all to love be given;

And, when life's little scene was o'er,
We'd part to meet, and part no more,
But live and love in heaven.

EVENING HYMN.

My soul, a hymn of evening praise
To God, thy kind preserver, raise,

Whose hand, this day, hath guarded, fed,
And thousand blessings round thee shed.

Forgive my sins this day, O Lord,
In thought or feeling, deed or word;
And if in aught thy law I've kept,
My feeble efforts, Lord, accept.

While nature round is hush'd to rest,
Let no vain thought disturb my breast;