biguity, will go to posterity with a passport better | are not in reserve? Metaphysicians have hitherto than his who struggles to obscure it. divided it into "sensation" and reflection," and We cannot, within the space allowed us, pretend here they have stopped. No one has attempted to to notice the modifications by his followers of the trace the possible modifications of that mysterious doctrines of Kant, nor must we, in quitting the sub-principle, which we so designate, upwards or downject, appear to call in question either the talent or wards. No one has attempted to demonstrate even earnestness of the modern school of metaphysics, the probability of a system of beings, really sentias constituted by those who hold generally his doc-ent, ministering in their several degrees to each trines. We are well aware that this school has other, from the lowest conceivable manifestation of produced some virtuous and magnanimous thinkers. sensibility to the highest operations of intellect, and Why should it not? a strong persuasion of the communicating only by means of those superadded truth of subtle abstractions extends itself, and ren- ideas of extension, space, time, form, solidity, and ders more vivid the perception of truths, more lim- color, the true nature of which has been so often ited in application, but more important in practice. mistaken, and, as it should seem, the true office of Let us, however, guard ourselves-for this is all which may not have been demonstrated. Metawe wish to do-from inferring the truth of his physicians seem to have wandered betwixt extenets from the character of the teacher. For it is tremes. Idealism, on one hand, annihilates all but a truth, although a sad one, that many a man has itself by sweeping negations. Materialism, on the drawn comfort from a false religion, and been ex- other hand, builds the triumph of matter only upon alted and sustained by a philosophy itself destitute the degradation or denial of mind, for that is the of foundation. We only object to this philosophy, real result. In the ripeness of time, it is probable that it has, in our humble opinion, somewhat mis- that truth may be found between these two. We taken its road. It has looked for a certainty which may learn to assign to the substance, whose attricannot be found, and stigmatized as idle assumption bute is thought, its true rank and true domain; much that is undeserving of such a stigma, because whilst we find for the material modes a subordinate it cannot be brought within that category of cer- office, even as the sand interposed betwixt the hand tainty which is unattainable. These are the ex- and that which it would grasp, often enables it to tremes of doctrine. Inferences may be irresistible seize that which must else have eluded its clutch. which cannot, in the sight of a rigorous logic, be Such appears to us the direction in which psychoheld to be positively certain; and a perpetually in- logical discovery is to be made. What we can creasing probability may at last come to equal, in only faintly indicate, future times and future advenforce of conviction, the power of demonstration, or turers may achieve. The last thing of which we the light of intuition. Would it not be better then ought to despair is the progress of inquiry, if vir to avail ourselves of such certainty as we have, tuously conducted, and with a view to the ultimate and when demonstration and intuition fail us, to be improvement and happiness of man. contented with evidence, of which the cumulative power may induce conviction almost as strongly as could demonstration itself? No sane mind ever doubted of its own existence. No sane mind ever doubted of its own identity, because the mind being a unit, and not a composite, the certainty of its own identity is a part of its essence. This consciousness of identity cannot be severed from the consciousness of existence. It is perfectly easy to imagine other minds to exist which, as far as knowledge, memory, feeling, and character are concerned, shall be fac-similes of our own; but we cannot, for a single moment, conceive such fac-similes to be ourselves. We cannot do this, because identity is not a composition, or aggregate, but a unit, and cannot by any power of imagination be conceived of otherwise, even for a single moment. But what is this unit? or how shall we define it? It is no aggregate, made up of ideas of extension, solidity, ponderosity, form, or color. Neither is it a bundle of sensations, a compound of feeling, reflection, and memory, for these things are only its modes, and reside, and are inherent in it, but are no part of it. We can only define it, then, as the rigid and mathematical Spinoza defined it, to be" RES COGITANS,' a thinking thing," or, in other words, a being of which thought is the attribute. This definition seems narrow to the ear, but to the understanding it is the reverse, for who can say what discoveries as to the nature of thought 66 *Should any reader be surprised at this reference to Spinoza, unaccompanied by any allusion to opinions erroneously attributed to him, we most respectfully refer such reader to his works. A perusal of them will prove him the reverse of that, which he has been supposed to be--an Atheist! The best edition of his collected works is that of Professor Paulus, entitled-" Benedicti de Spinoza opera quæ supersunt omnia. Jena, vol. i., 1802; vol. ii., 1803."-H. E. G. Paulus, Prof. Ienensis. We are now to conclude, and we must do so with a few remarks on the character of the accomplished person, whose works have given the occasion for the present article. Sir James Macintosh was no ordinary man, but he lived at an era where in the senate, at the bar, and in the walks of philosophy and of general literature, England exhibited a variety and brilliance of genius not often equalled in any age or country. In the House of Commons, eloquence was of more value than it is at present, from obvious causes. Stern necessity then pressed less upon governments, and as necessity did less, persuasion did more. Eloquence, accordingly, abounded. In the commons were Pitt, Fox, Burke, Sheridan, Grey, Canning, Windham, Romilly, Whitbread, Tierney, and Brougham, whilst Horner and Huskisson were the mouth-pieces of those who styled themselves, par excellence," political economists." At the bar were Erskine, Scott, and Law, with various other minor lights. In philosophy were prominent the names of Cavendish, Dugald Stewart, Watt, Brown, Priestley, and Leslie. Amongst the political strategy of the day, the beautiful sophistries and exalted thoughts of Burke, and the brilliant wit of Canning, were strangely contrasted with the keen sarcasm and originality of Horne Tooke, the light humor of Sidney Smyth, the eloquence of Jeffrey, the reckless intrepidity of Paine, the specious fantasies of Godwin, and the Anglo-Saxon energy and plain sense of Cobbett. With such men as Pitt, Fox, and Sheridan, Macintosh is certainly not to be compared. He could not have led a political party like the first two; nor could he, like the last, have attained and preserved a high place in the world of politics and of letters, in spite of the disadvantages of a defective education, and an indulgence in vices which would at once, and utterly, have ruined a more ordinary man. THE PARTING OF THE EARTH. TRANSLATED FROM SCHILLER BY LORD NUGENT. "TAKE ye the earth!" cried Jove, as from high heaven To Man he spake; "Yours shall it ever be, For an enduring heritage 't is given; With an intellect like that of Burke, the mind of the mistakes of Horner, Ricardo, Huskisson, and Macintosh will as little bear to be contrasted. Even Peel, as to our own currency, he was just as little in Burke's most sophistical compositions, we per- cognizant. If this ignorance, however, prevented ceive a loftiness of thought and depth of reflection his doing some good, it saved him, also, from parthat few men have equalled, and to which Sir ticipating in much evil and some folly; and, luckily James Macintosh could not lay claim. With Can- for himself, modestly averse, as was Lord Grey, ning he had more in common. It is our belief that from committing himself to dogmas, of which he he was, as a scholar, the better read man of the had no knowledge, he escaped being prominently two; and as a politician and a judge of mankind, mixed in the measures of the" Bullion Committee," it is no compliment to place him above that brilliant the resolutions and contradictions of Mr. Vansittart, and showy, but certainly shallow statesman. But and the heartless monstrosities of Mr. Malthus. In the ready wit, the elegant repartee, and the refined fine, as an author, Sir James Macintosh must always sarcasm of the son of the actress were denied him. stand high, but far from the highest. His works For the coups de Theatre of Canning he had not the ought to be a part of our libraries, though a minor tact, and hence, alone, his inferiority; for in ele- part. By the old, however accomplished, they gant literature, in classical lore, and in truth of must always be read with pleasure. By the young, thinking, he was his superior. Of all his contem- however gifted, they must ever be perused with adporaries, we should say that Sir James Macintosh vantage. As one of those who, by the judicious comes nearest to the excellent Sir Samuel Romilly. use of admirable acquirements, have contributed to Like him he was an accomplished lawyer, a fluent civilize the minds and advance the liberties of their speaker, a polished writer, and a benevolent and countrymen, he must ever rank; but not amongst liberal thinker, in the emphatical meaning of these those mighty few can he be placed, who, by the terms. Like that of Romilly, his character was so demonstration of a great principle, or the discovery well balanced as to come nearer to the semblance of a new truth, have exalted human nature itself, of perfection than do the characters of men of much and conferred benefits, until then unthought of, greater genius, but less regular and carefully tutored upon mankind. habits of thought. Genius is apt to run into extremes, and to be alternately loaded with exaggerated praises or undeserved censures. With minds more equable but less exalted, this is not the case; and where Romilly and Macintosh missed the meed of praise, they escaped also the shafts of blame, and the reaction of that unmerited hostility, which too often follows triumphs too splendid. As an author, Sir James Macintosh cannot certainly be placed in the van of the writers of his time, but he stands near the head of the second rank. His style is always correct, scholarlike, and elegant; but it wants imagination and graphic power, as well as nerve and strength of expression. If it seldom carries away, it, however, always pleases and sometimes delights the reader. If never sublime, it is always polished; and compared with the compositions of such a writer, for instance, as Lord Brougham, is a statue of the Parian marble contrasted with some savage sculptures in Scotch sandstone. As a teacher of those around him, Sir James Macintosh was successful, not because he possessed great store of original thought, but because he fully digested and skilfully condensed a varied supply of intellectual aliment raised and matured by others. Hence his political maxims and theories were never original, nor were his historical views either beyond, or in a direction different from, those of other men. What was to be known he knew, what was good he generally adopted, and what he adopted he always adorned. Beyond this, however, he did not go. New truths And cast him down before Jove's star-girt throne. and new principles are diamonds in the rough which few have the energy to search for or to find. "Tranced in the land of dreams if thou didst stay," Macintosh preferred the labor of polishing the gem Replied the God," complain not then of meto that of discovering it; and by the brilliance of Where wast thou?-others won the earth away.' his cutting and taste in setting, divided the merit Father," the poet said, "I was with thee! with him who dug it from the mine. As a poli-Still, on thy face was turned my raptured gaze, tician and historian, his most palpable deficiency is the want of knowledge of the modern science of political economy. Of this branch of knowledge, he was clearly almost as destitute as was Canning, and, unlike Brougham, he did not indulge the wretched affectation of pretending to know that which he had never mastered. In the stability of the French" assignats," it is manifest he was a believer to the last; and it is equally clear that of Take it ;-but see ye share it brotherly!" Then hastened each to seize, with busy hand, As each, or young or old, his choice had made; The rustic tilled and reaped the teeming land— The young lord hunted through the greenwood shade. With the world's wealth the merchant filled his store, The abbot's cellars yawned for generous wine; The public pass the king stood guardian o'er; Bridges and roads-"The toll," he cried, "is mine!" Division made then late, and listlessly, From some far realms the charmed poet came, Alas! what heritage or hope had he?— All owned some present master's earlier claim. "Ah, woe is me!-Alone of all, must I Forgotten be? And I thy truest son!" 66 Still to thy heaven's own harmony mine ear;— Pardon the wandering spirit, that, in the blaze Dazzled, hath lost all home and portion here. "List, then," said Jove," the earth is others' feeThe pasture, forest, mart, no more are mine. But, in my heaven would'st thou abide with me, Mount, son!-the realms of light and song are thine." [Bentley's Miscellany. From Chambers' Journal. MINOR TRIALS.-A STORY OF EVERY-DAY LIFE. THE prick of a pin often gives more acute pain than the gash inflicted by a lancet. So, as we pass through life, our minor sorrows are frequently harder to bear than our great afflictions. Very heavy troubles either deaden our sense of suffering by the violence of the shock, or else excite an unwonted and unnatural strength, which enables us to stand firm against the blow. But the minor evils of life annoy us-irritate us; we chafe against them, and can neither patiently endure, nor manfully fight against them. And thus it is that we often see those whom we had most reverenced for having nobly borne great trials, the first to sink under les ser ones. But enough of this moralizing strain, into which we are too prone to fall. There is no sermon so good as example, and a plain story often does more service than all the essays on morality that ever 'came from old Wisdom's pen. In our childish days -alas! a long, long time ago!-we learned more from good Mrs. Hoffland's simple tales, than Dr. Aikin or Mrs. Chapone could ever have taught us. Her diligent boys, and kind sisters, and patient 'companions, were like mute friends to us, ever inciting us to emulate their good examples; silent monitors, who, without any prosy advice, by their own actions admonished us to go and do likewise. And thus we have ever loved and had faith in stories. Now for our own. It was on a fine May morning, when earth and sky seemed full of hope and gayety, that a bride was brought home to the small parish of Woodmanslea. It was a gay procession; the horses' heads were nodding under green boughs, and girls were strewing flowers on the road; for the bridegroom was no less a personage than the young rector, the Rev. Owen Thornton, who had brought to his English home Katharine Gordon, one of the fairest flowers that ever grew on the Highland hills. Katharine was that rare sight-a truly beautiful woman. She was not pretty-her stature was too tall for that; and her regular and somewhat strongly-marked features were too classically perfect to charm at 'once a common eye, which is generally dazzled by complexion or manner. She had the dark hair and aquiline character of face which, probably by some foreign intermixture, is often found in the Highlands of Scotland in contradistinction to the fair face and sunny hair, which is perhaps less beautiful, but more . winning. And Katharine's eyes— "Her dark and intricate eyes, Orb within orb, deeper than sleep or death"no other words than these we quote would adequately describe them. Her beauty was more noble than loveable; so that the village girls who clustered around her carriage were in some degree awed, until the inexpressible sweetness of her smile chased away all their doubts. The bridegroom was, as is nearly always the case, totally unlike his wife; mild in face and manner, with irregular but pleasing features, which, amidst all their sweetness of expression, bore a certain character of indecision. Quiet and gentlemanlike in his deportment; of disposition according with his kindly looks, not particularly clever, but possessing considerable acuteness of perception, united with almost womanly tenderness of feeling, Owen Thornton was in every way what an English country clergyman should be. The carriage wound slowly up the wooded hill, on the top of which stood the church and the rectory. The road through which they passed was bounded by thick hedges, out of which sprang noble trees-oak, elm, and chestnut with its fragrant white flowers. At times a break in these verdant boundaries showed glimpses of a lovely, wide extended landscape. But when they had passed the old church, and came to the summit of the hill, how beautiful was the scene before them! For miles and miles, as far as the eye could reach, lay a rich undulating valley; sunny slopes, of the graceful curve which is peculiar to the part of the country we describe; white mansions glimmering through trees; dark woods here and there; and the river winding amidst all, like a silver thread, now seen, now lost, until it hid itself in the blue distant mountains that bounded the whole; and above all hung the deep blue arch of heaven, fraught with the glorious sunshine of May. Katharine Thornton looked on this scene, and her beautiful lip trembled with deep feeling. She took her husband's hand, and said in a sweet voice, which a slight northern intonation only made more musical, "And is this your sunny England? It is beautiful, most beautiful!" "And you will love it for my sake?" answered the delighted bridegroom. Her answer was audible to him alone; but the evident pleasure of the young bride had gratified all; and as the carriage turned to enter the heavy gates of the old rectory, the villagers and tenants, who had come to greet the squire's younger brother, rent the air with their shouts. And such was Katharine Thornton's welcome home. A few weeks passed by, and the bride became settled in her new abode, and entered cheerfully on her new duties. It was in every way a great change for Katharine. True, she had no distant home to cling to and regret, for she was an orphan; and then she loved her husband so entirely! But yet everything she met seemed new and strange to the young Highland girl, thus suddenly transformed into an English clergyman's wife. Still she was happy— most happy! She moved about her beautiful garden on the slope of the hill, and amused herself with the arrangement and adornment of her pretty home, which Owen's care had filled with everything that could please his beloved wife-and she felt such delight in her new dignity, when she took the head of her husband's table as the mistress of the house! It was a girlish feeling; but she was so young-not out of her teens in truth. And then Katharine had to welcome and visit her new relatives-her husband's mother, and brother, and sisters. Her heart was overflowing with love for them all, for she had none of her own; and even before her marriage, she had looked forward to these new ties with intense pleasure. But when the young wife actually met them, though their greeting was not unkind, she fancied it was cold. In this Katharine was mistaken; for when her mother-in-law first kissed her cheek, and welcomed her as Owen's wife, a deep interest had sprung up in her heart for the stranger.. But Katharine did not know this. Mrs. Thornton was an English gentlewoman of the old school, such as exist in the nooks where the manufacturing whirlpool has not yet swallowed up and mingled the gradations of ancient gentry, yeomen, and farmers. Dignified, reserved, but not forbidding-kind to the poor from nature and from custom-loving her children with a deep but not openly-shown affection, the sole remaining tie of a long-widowed heart-such was Owen's mother. "I would love her if she would let me !" thought the young wife many a time. "But I fear neither she nor any of them love me." John Thornton, her eldest son, the squire of the vil- | reserved and sedate manner of Mrs. Thornton lage, was the very opposite of his brother-bold, sprung from an unloving heart. manly, reckless-the best hunter and best fox-hunter for miles round. Devoted to these sports, he lived unmarried with his mother and sisters at the hall. Of these three sisters we must now speak, for it was to them that Katharine chiefly looked for society and affection. Miss Thornton, the eldest, was what the world despitefully terms an old maid. She might once have been handsome, but her younger sisters never remembered her otherwise but as she now appeared a gentle and ladylike woman of middle age. There had been some shadow over her youth, Owen told his wife-some old and lost love; but no one ever spoke of it now. A broken heart is rare blessings to old Time, the benevolent healer of all sorrows, for the same! And if some coldness was left in Elizabeth Thornton's heart, which gave a slight tinge to her manners, it was all that now remained of her early sorrows. Agnes, the second, was one of those every-day characters that are constantly met with-neither plain nor pretty, neither disagreeable nor particularly winning; but Florence, the youngest, was a beautiful and accomplished girl, and Owen's darling sister. Of her Katharine had often heard, and had longed to see her; but when they really met, she was disappointed. There was an evident constraint in her sister-in-law's manner towards her. Florence seemed to watch so eagerly every word, every action, of her brother's wife; and then Owen thought so much of her. Every new ornament in the house, or improvement in the garden, was the result of Florence's taste, until the young wife become wearied of hearing "Florence did that," "Florence did so and so." Foolish Katharine! she was absolutely becoming jealous; while Florence, on her part, though of sweet temper in the main, almost looked upon her beautiful sister-in-law as a rival. There is nothing so chilling, so repulsive to affection, as this doubt concealed in the heart; and Katharine's manner grew colder, and her visits at the hall less frequent; so that her sisters, whose slight prejudices a little patient forbearance would have melted into warm regard, began to look upon Owen's wife as a stranger who could not share in any of their pursuits or enjoyments. However, Katharine had her husband still; his love was unchanged. Hers had been gained, not by outward beauty or dazzling talent, but, as the dear old song says, "his gentle manners won her heart;" and those "gentle manners,' " and that innate goodness of heart, could never alter in Owen Thornton. Some might have said that the young rector's wife was superior to himself: in some things perhaps she was; but the thought never entered Katharine's mind. Had it done so, she would have shrunk from it in fear and shame : for there is nothing so bitter to a wife's peace as to think meanly of him whom she ought to reverence with her whole soul. If all the world had seen Katharine's superiority to her husband, alas for her on the day when it should be discovered to her own eyes! The honeymoon was over, but many long, sweet evenings-almost lover-like-did Owen and Katharine spend together in the pretty room which overlooked the sloping hill-side. The husband and wife were still lingering in the shadow of the romance of courtship; and they loved to sit in autumn evenings and watch the brown and changing woods, and talk of the blue mountains and lakes, and wild, beautiful regions, where Owen had first met and wooed his Highland bride. One night the quickcoming twilight found them still here. Katharine had been talking to her husband of her own young days, long before she knew that such a person as Owen Thornton existed. These childish memories left a vague sadness behind; and when Owen brought her harp, and asked her to sing away all old thoughts, she sat down and poured forth her whole heart in the deep pathos of the ever-beautiful" Flowers of the Forest." Now came various trifling vexations, which jarred on the spirit of the young bride, and often contracted her fair brow with a frown, at which she herself was the first to laugh and blush when the trivial cause that brought it thither was past. Katharine had borne nobly the loss of parents, of home, and many great sorrows too heavy for one so young; but now, in the midst of her happiness, innumerable minor things arose to annoy her. She was so anxious that her sisters should love her; and yet it seemed When she finished the last line, which seems to that they always happened to visit the rectory when die away like the last sigh of nature's summer or its young mistress was chafed by some household of youth's hope-"The flowers o' the forest are a' disaster; and Agnes looked grave, and praised Eng-wede away"-Katharine remained some moments lish ways and habits in a tone which made Katha- silent. Her husband, too, did not speak. She rine's Highland blood rush to her brow, while turned towards him-Owen had fallen fast asleep Florence laughed at her, and Miss Thornton talked during her beautiful song! of patience and the beauty of gentleness of temper. A sudden chill struck bitterly on Katharine's And, in truth, this latter quality was what Katha-heart. She had felt so much, sung with such rine sorely wanted. She was a high-spirited wo- fervor, and all was lost upon Owen! Poor Kathman, of strong, deep feelings, but she wanted that arine! she was disappointed, wounded. She did meek, loving spirit "which endureth all things;" not think how many times her gentle husband had and she felt too keenly those chance words and looks listened to songs which his own different associa in which even the best of people will at times in- tions made him feel far less than she did, and which dulge, not knowing how very bitterly some of them he entered into solely from his love for her. She rankle in the memory of another. had forgotten, too, that he had ridden five-andtwenty miles that morning to administer baptism to a dying child, and to comfort the last moments of a poor widow. No wonder that he was wearied, and had sunk to sleep even in the midst of his wife's sweet music. Katharine certainly loved Mrs. Thornton much, perhaps more than she did her sisters. It might be that she saw a likeness to Owen in his mother's face; and how suddenly, how immediately, does the heart cling to such a resemblance to one beloved, even when traced in a passing stranger! Still, Katharine's sensitive temper fancied that the When Owen awoke, an hour after, there was no smile on Katharine's face to greet him, and a slight pout sat on her lips, which made their beauti- | loving girl. "It is years ago; Owen was very ful curves more visible, but which gave to their young; and I do not suppose he long remembered very loveliness that expression of all others the her, though he certainly loved her at the time; most odious on a woman's face-mingled scorn and but," added Florence gravely, "I know how much sullenness. Katharine's good angel had fled; but she loved him, and how deeply she suffered; for it was only for a time. In the silence of the night she was, and is, my dearest friend. However, she all this rose up against her, and floods of contrite may have forgotten him now. She seemed pleased tears washed away all the hardness and unkindness to see you, and speaks cheerfully to Owen. Poor which had entered her heart. Mary! I hope she has forgotten her 'first love,' as he has her." Next morning, Katharine's loving care seemed determined to make amends for the unexplained and unconfessed error into which she had fallen. Owen's chair was placed close to the bright fire, which had made the misty autumn morning seem cheerful; his favorite flowers, yet wet from the dew whence Katharine's hand had gathered them, were beside him; the breakfast which he liked best was provided; and Katharine, fresh and rosy as the morning itself, sat behind the ever-musical urn awaiting her husband. Owen came in with an open letter in his hand. It was from his mother, asking them to one of her old-fashioned dinner-parties. Owen was all cheerfulness; he was always pleased to go over to the hall-almost too much so his wife thought sometimes. "My mother complains that they have not seen you so much of late, Katharine love," said Owen. She looked rather confused. "It is certainly a good while since I went; but I have so many things to keep me at home; and then the girls seldom come here; it is their fault too." "Perhaps so. Well, we must go oftener, and to-morrow in particular; and you must make my mother happy by looking well and singing your best," said the husband gaily. Katharine felt anything but willing; but the mention of singing reminded her of her sins against poor Owen the evening before, and she knew atonement was needed. So she assented cheerfully, and they went together to the hall the day following. Mrs. Thornton's was one of those formal entertainments so uninteresting to a stranger, when neighbors meet and discuss the public and private affairs of the country. All this was very dull to Katharine; but she looked across the table to Owen's happy face as he talked to an old college friend; and she bore bravely with her own prosy neighbor, and strove with all her heart to take an interest in names, and persons, and places, of which she had never heard before. Florence, too, was merry, for she had her betrothed husband at her side; and Elizabeth Thornton's rare smile flitted more than once over her mild features as she talked to one who sat next her—a sweet-looking woman, whose pale golden hair, and delicate, almost transparent complexion, made her seem scarcely out of girlhood, though she was in reality about twenty-five. When the dinner was over, and Katharine sat with Florence in a little recess in the drawing-room window, out of hearing of the rest, she could not resist inquiring about the stranger who had attracted her so much. "Do you really not know who she is?" said Florence, surprised. "Did my brother never speak of Mary Wynn?" "No indeed; is that her name?" No more was said about Mary Wynn, but Katharine became thoughtful and silent; not that she doubted Owen's strong affection for herself, but no woman ever really likes to hear that her husband once had a "first love." And yet Florence was right; Owen had entirely forgotten his boyish flame. It is seldom that such endure; and perhaps it is well; for the silvery veil of romance and fancy which enshrouds man's first idol, would infallibly, when removed, leave an image far below this ideal standard of perfection. Nevertheless, Katharine, full of the happy fulfilment of her own young love, felt much more than perhaps Mary Wynn did herself. Had she known how much deeper and stronger is the love of the man than of the boy, of the woman than of the romantic girl, Katharine would not have so closely watched her husband and Mary Wynn, nor have returned home with such a weight on her heart. Mary Wynn left the hall, went home, and was forgotten; but still her visit had left a painful impression on Owen's wife. Katharine thought that much of Florence's distaste to herself-aversion it could hardly be called-arose from her strong love and sympathy for Mary Wynn. Day by day the bond between Katharine Thornton and her sisters-inlaw was gradually loosening; and her quick eyes were ever discovering failings, and her mind becoming more alive to unworthy suspicions. Florence's mirth-loving nature was to her full of bitter sarcasm; Elizabeth's gentle gravity, which had interested her so much, appeared only the hypocrisy of self-assumed goodness; and Agnes' indolence was insupportable. Katharine fancied they tried to make her husband love her less; and even Owen felt the results of her harsh doubts in her changed manner and anxious looks. Husband and wife loved one another still; but the perfect sunshine of all-hallowing, all-forgiving love was gone; and what trifles, what mere shadows, had done this! In her unhappiness, Katharine's mind turned regretfully to her old Scottish home, and lingered sinfully on many former joys. At last her overburdened heart would find vent; she told all the doubts and troubles of her wedded life to an old and dear friend-the wife of her former guardian. In this Katharine was wrong, very wrong. Such trials, even when they amount to real griefs, should be hidden in the depths of the heart; no eye should see them-no ear should hear them. True, of her husband himself—the kind, good-principled, affectionate Owen-Katharine had nought to complain; and of his family, the very knowledge that they were his should have sealed her lips. Fortunately for Katharine, her friend, Mrs. Lindsay, was wise as well as kind; and candid, although gentle, was the reproof she gave to the young wife. "You are young, and I am old," she wrote, An uneasy sensation made the young wife start," therefore, Katharine, listen to me with patience. and look fixedly at "Owen's first love;" but then she laughed, and asked Florence to tell her more. "I hardly know if I ought," said the mischief You tell me how much you are tried-ask of your own heart, have you been entirely in the right? Is there in you no discontent-no readiness to com |