Then they are all ladies; and now, quick as if Queen Mab had been with me, I see drawing-rooms and decorations, vanity and inanity, littleness and lightness, manoeuvring and marrying. Then they are all mothers-petting, perverting, or neglecting their offspring. And all these beings might be--were designed to beWOMEN each instinct with the spark of individual power derived from the Deity, and capable of the agency due to the universe.

The beauty which women prize so much, do they apprehend it will be perilled by their coming from behind the curtain of conservative luxury, and quitting the degrading service of animalism-by meeting the broad disk of the sun of universal light, by serving at the altars of universal good? In truth they are mistaken. The finest transparency is nothing without a light behind it-the lamp may have form, but without light it has no lustre; in like manner, where there is no soul there is no beauty -where soul is, beauty there must be; it is the ethereal spark of celestial and eternal fire which permeates the human clay, making it transparant with light and love, and transmittent of them.

And power-do men fear that they will lose the whip-hand when women quit the harness of their present pernicious habits? First let them see whether they have the whip-hand, and, having it, what it is worth.

The avarice of power is ever ill served by the ignorant and secretive: it is thus that the blaze of ambition has so often gone out in its own fetid smoke, and conquerors, who lived amid corruption, lie at last covered by contempt, or the pity which is akin to it.

It is intelligence which renders homage to intelligence; as the astronomer's discerning eye knows the stars in their magnitude, so do the intelligent perceive where and what is power.

True power has no need to enforce itself-true power never does. Right onward lies its way, turning neither to the right nor to the left to court favour or follower. When intelligence meets and recognises this power, it is light meeting light,—the worshipped and the worshipping blend their beams, just as we may imagine some heavenward angels returning from a mission to this earth might combine their energies to cleave the cloud, baffle the wind, and meet the sun; the stronger spirit yielding support, the weaker feeling support, neither conscious of the cold, clumsy, vulgar, earthy moods of command and obedience, sway and submission, condescension and deference.

'The man

Of virtuous soul commands not nor obeys.
Power, like a desolating pestilence,
Pollutes whate'er it touches; and obedience,
Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth,
Makes slaves of men, and of the human frame
A mechanized automaton.'

IN

The universal philosophy is the good ship chartered to carry forward the whole human race-Heaven fill its sails, and speed its way! But, from the captain to the cabin-boy, individual zeal must contribute to the capital of general and united labour. DIVIDUAL ENERGY-UNIVERSAL LOVE,-these are the fountains which education must feed;—either left to play alone make humanity vicious or visionary; both acting together will make it all that humanity can attain to; what that may yet be is as much beyond conception as is the cause which set this progressive particle-humanity-in action! When the first canoe was scooped, what thought its maker of an English man-of-war or a steamboat? When the first arrow was launched, what dreamed the archer of steam-guns or infernal machines?

But amid the brightest hopes, the grandest views, let us remember that our starting-post is self-improvement, and the first stages of action are home and country.

It has been observed that the sun never sets on the standard of England; before his evening rays have left the shores of Ireland, his morning beams have gilded the spires of Quebec: it is light on the blue hills of Australia before darkness has closed on Lake Ontario; and the reveilléo has sounded at Calcutta before the retreat has beaten at Sidney.' Would that, in like manner, moral light might everywhere attend the presence of the English! I do not the less desire that they should give the free frank hand of fraternity to all, that I desire that it should be the unexceptionable hand of high personal and national character.

What I would particularly enforce is, that so finite a creature as the human being must have definite aims, and decided actions: -the eye, according to its powers of vision, may survey a wide field, but the hand can only serve a small portion of that fieldand surveyance without service is theory without practice.

I would willingly work for the world, but the limits of my powers and my position confine me to my country, and to a very small portion of that; but by an ardent devotion to this small circle I conceive that I more profitably employ the talent' that has been intrusted to me, than if, allured by the ambition of universal utility, I took a wider range. Gifted with commensurate power, gladly would I lead the vanguard of the universe; endowed but as I am, I put my hand to the plough in England.

Since writing the above I have read Professor Hamilton's eloquent address to the British Association, recently met in Dublin, and which Association he finely styles the Parliament of Science. His remarks on individuality, his allusion to the standard of England, are coincidences of thought which gratify me personally and on principle; but I chiefly allude to that noble address for the able and ample view it gives of the advantages of co-operation, which I, not having the fear of the good and great Robert Owen sufficiently before my eyes, have perhaps treated too lightly.

M. L. G.

605

THE VISION.

A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

SCENE I.-A spacious Chamber, faintly lighted by the dim autumnal twilight streaming through an open window, shaded by a vinecovered trellis-work. A single human figure is seen to rise from a couch, and pace the apartment, abstracted in meditation. Suddenly he pauses, and the light falling on him shows the face of a man of thirty years, browned with travel, and wearing an aspect betokening a mind ill at ease.

STRANGER. Once more my steps are stayed, but not to rest; Once more the weariness of travel stops

To give the weariness of spirit way,

Which feeds in the void caverns of my heart.

And thus gains strength to sap the springs of life.

How hard a thing it is to wear life out

When Hope's exhaustion shuns no peril's chance;
When danger's very recklessness restores
Elastic firmness to the unconscious mind,
And gives fresh tension to the pain-wrung nerves!
Fain would I die; fain would I pass away,
And sleep the sleep which knows no waking-time.
Lo! here are means: this scanty liquid drug
Moistens my fevered tongue or loveless lips,
And what is shall be was. This simple spring
But gently pressed, calls forth the latent fire,
And thought and all its organs lie dispersed.
This keen-edged blade-whose polished surface shows,
Like a bright mirror, Care's indented lines.
Graved in my visage-gives but one sure stroke,
And Death in life-blood revels. But the space

Of time in which a meteor passes o'er

The face of yon blue heaven, and it were done!
Why do I stay my hand? I do not fear
The physical endurance, though it were
E'en a protracted torture. I have borne

More than the pangs that wait on Matter's death;
I have borne the Spirit's torture.
In all shapes
Extinction has been braved, and yet it passed me
As one not worth its touch. Let me call back
The memory of the past. A dreamy void,
In which dark shadows flitted to and fro,
Served me in place of mind. The waking up
Of that unpurposed time was terrible

To all but me. The solid earth was rocking,
The rivers disappeared, the lakes were dry,
The ocean left its beaches and its cliffs,
And made a water-rampart with its surf
Heaped o'er its summit-level; the old hills,

Green and tree-crowned, shook off their verdant load,
And bared their rocky frames; the ancient mountains,

That knew no cover save the shattered fragments
Strewn o'er their giant angles, bowed their heads,
And stony avalanches downwards rushed,
While deep ravines in thunder disappeared;
All nature reeled, like to a drunken man

Who rends the workmanship his hands have made;
The earth danced like a Bacchanal; the dwellings
Based on the earth were crumbled on their heads
Who reared them up; the gorgeous temples fell,
And the salt wave, returning in its might,
Washed scornful through their ruins. A tall ship,
A toy in Ocean's arms, was laid athwart
The very basement where the altar stood;
The wild beasts left the forests, and the birds
Screamed in affright while rising on the wing;
The tamed horse joined the wild herd, and the goat
Lost his firm footing on the crags, and fell
Into the yawning chasms. The pale moon
Lighted the fearful scene; while crowds of men,
Shiv'ring in terror, left their wounded fellows
Mangled and crushed, and sought an open space
Whereon to kneel and mingle fearful prayers
With the wild shrieks of women and of children.
Awhile I laughed, as in an opium-fit,
For I had found excitement once again!
Then in that fearful scene, yea, on that spot,
Came deep analysis of human acts

And human passions; and, while thus I mused,
I was alone amidst a ruined town!

A shriek came on mine ear, a woman's shriek,

A deep and piercing solitary shriek—

'Save, save my child! My heart was nerved once more

My strength was as a giant's. Strong to save,

I threw away my garments, and I toiled

As love alone can toil, Woman and child
Were rescued from the ruin; and I cast
My wearied body on the heaving earth,

Faint with exhaustion. By the pale moonlight
That woman pressed her child unto her heart,
And blessed me as her saviour. The hot tears
Gushed from mine eyelids.

*

Once more the land was quiet-the worn earth
Had rocked herself to sleep; another soil
Greeted mine eyes from the wild mountain-peak ;
A torrent ran beneath down the ravine,
Swoll'n by a thousand rivulets, which streamed
From the sunned snow-banks; by that torrent-side
The sure feet of my steed pursued the track
Till the sun cast no shadow. Lo! the ford,
Known to the mountain-trackers. Forward, ho!

On, gallant horse, and plunge! He started thrice

Ere he would dip his fetlocks; and full soon,
Ere the mid current reached him, we were swept,
Rider and horse, along the rushing flood.
The torrent-spanning snow-arch had shut out
The light of day, and my wild shout arose,
Bidding farewell to life.

*

*

*

I could not die!

*

The mountain-trackers drew me forth again,

And warmed me back to life, and dressed my wounds,
And fed and cherished me, and taught me how
To chase the wild prey o'er the steepest crag,
And tread secure in peril. One bright morn
I stood upon a cavern's edge, and bent
Gazing in depths below my vision's ken:
The dropping pebbles from the black abyss
Returned no sound, and my impatient mood
Brooked not uncertainty: a craggy mass
I loosened from its bed, and as it fell
My unfirm footing followed. Death afar
Mocked at my peril,-for I could not die!

*

*

Time passed away, and on a broad green plain
Two hostile troops of armed men were ranged,
Eager for murder. A bright lady came,
And spoke fair words of Freedom and of Right,
And bade me be a warrior. At her words

I bounded on a charger, and a blade

Weaponed my hand; the death-shots rang aloud,
And warm blood was poured forth.
Then fell revenge
Grew stronger than ambition. Lances low,
And blades on high, and trampling hoofs, and spurs
Driven to their rowel-heads, and battle-shouts,

And volleying sounds, and clashing arms, and smoke,
And flames, and dust, and shrieks of rage and pain,
And crushing strokes, and breaking limbs, and wounds
Welling with blood; and steeds upon the earth,
Crushing disabled riders as they fell;

And o'er this scene of horror loudly rang

The victor's voices, Freedom!'' Liberty!'

'Our Country and Revenge! No mercy, None!'
How my soul loathes itself! Throughout that field
My dark steed bore me, striking at, and stricken;
My hand against my fellows' lives, and theirs
Failing to slay me.

Oh! I could not die!

Or I had perished, knowing the foul truth
That I had fought the fiend Ambition's fight,
And, like a hired ruffian, dyed my hand
In ignorant men's blood. That lady came,
And praised me for my work. I bade her look
On the piled carnage, and I turned away,
Breaking the gory weapon. Never more
Might blood be shed by me!

*

*

*