long previous preparation of mind, the settled habits of thought. It has taken but three hours, perhaps, to compose an admirable piece of poetry, or a fine speech; but the reflections of three years, or of thirty, may have been tending to that result.

To give the noblest thoughts the noblest expression; to stand up in the pure light of reason, or to create a new atmosphere, as it were, for intellectual vision; to put on all the glories of imagination, as a garment; to penetrate the soul, and to make men feel as if they were themselves new creatures, to make them conscious of new powers and a new being; to exercise in the loftiest measure, the only glorious and godlike sway,—that over willing minds; to fill the ear, the eye, the inmost soul, with sounds, and images, and holy visions of beauty and grandeur; to make truth and justice, to make wisdom and virtue and religion more lovely and majestic things than men had ever thought them before; to delight as well as to convince; to charm, to fascinate, to win, to arouse, to calm, to terrify, to overwhelm, this is the work of eloquence; and it is a glorious work.

The great object of all the liberal arts is to exhibit the mind; to exhibit character, thought, feeling, in their various aspects. In this consists all their power and sublimity. For this, the painter spreads upon the dull canvas the breathing forms of life; the sculptor causes the marble to speak; the architect models the fair and majestic structure, with sublimity enthroned in its dome; with beauty shaped in its columns, and glory written upon its walls; and the poet builds his lofty rhyme; and the eloquent in music, orders his movement and combination of sweet sounds. But, of this mind, the human frame is the appointed instrument. It was designed for this end. For it could have answered all the purposes of physical existence, without any of its present grace and beauty. It was made with no more obvious intent than to be the expression of mind, the organ of the soul, the vehicle of thought. And when all its powers are put in requisition for this purpose,-the voice, with all its thrilling tones; the eye, "through which, as a window, the soul darts foth its light;" the lips, on which " grace is poured;" the

whole glowing countenance, the whole breathing frame, which, in their ordinary forms, can express more than the majesty of an Apollo, more than the agony of a Laocoon ;—when every motion speaks, every lineament is more than the written line of genius, every muscle swells with the inspiration of high thoughts, every nerve is swayed to the movings of some mighty theme; what instrument of music, what glories of the canvas, can equal it? Eloquence is the combination of all arts, and it excels them all in their separate powers. Nor is it confined to the mere gratification of taste. The great and ultimate object of social existence, is for man to act on man; and eloquence is the grandest medium of this action. It is not only the highest perfection of a human being (for "the orator must be a good man") but it is that perfection in act. It is sublimity, beauty, genius, power, in their most glorious exercise.

MY SAILOR.

ANONYMOUS.

He sat at my side on that eastern hill,
My brave, sweet lad, with the gold-lit hair,
And gazed at the vessels which seemed to fill
The rippling breadth of the harbor there.

The black-hulled vessels from over the sea,
The white-sailed vessels that came and went.
'I am going to sail away!" said he,

"To sail some day to my heart's content.

"I shall see the waving of southland palms,
The dark, fierce fronts of the icebergs tall,
And gather the grapes in my outstretched arms,
From vines on some Spanish convent's wall."

Then he drew my hand from beneath his chin,
And trailed my fingers across his lips---
"Yes, we both shall sail from the town of Lynn,

In one of those stanch old black prowed ships."

So one summer evening his ship set sail,
And floated off in the twilight grim;
I heaped up the vessel with blossoms pale,
And wept that I could not follow him.

And I cannot say that he sees the palms,
Nor icy walls, that he longed to see;
But I know he sailed into stronger arms
And better lands, when he went from me.

O my brave, sweet lad! how his angel eyes
Will gaze out over the ocean dim
That reaches from earth into paradise,
Till I set my sail and follow him.

THE PEARL NAUTILUS.

There is a ship of pearl which poets feign

Sails the unshadowed main,

The venturous bark that flings

HOLMES.

On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings,

And coral reefs lie bare,

Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;

Wrecked is the ship of pearl !

And every chambered cell,

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,

As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,

Before thee lies revealed,—

Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed !

Year after year beheld the silent toil

That spread his lustrous coil;

Still, as the spiral grew,

He left the past year's dwelling for the new,

Stole with soft step its shining archway through,

Built up its idle door,

Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,

Child of the wandering sea,

Cast from her lap forlorn!

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born

Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!

While on mine ear it rings,

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings :—

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,

As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past!

Let each new temple, nobler than the last,

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,

Till thou at length art free,

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea !

FOOTSTEPS ON THE OTHER SIDE.

Sitting in my humble doorway,

MARGARET EYTINGE.

Gazing out into the night,
List'ning to the stormy tumult
With a kind of sad delight-
Wait I for the loved who comes not,
One whose step I long to hear;
One who, though he lingers from me,
Still is dearest of the dear.

Hark! he comes-now, heart, exultant

In thy joy forget to chide;

Ah! 'tis but a stranger's footstep

Gone by on the other side!

All the night seems filled with weeping,
Winds are wailing mournfully,
And the rain-tears blent together
Journey to the restless sea.
I can fancy, sea, you murmur,
As they with your waters flow,
Like the griefs of single beings
Making up a nation's woe,

Branches, bid your guests be silent,
Hush a moment, fretful rain,
Breeze, stop sighing―let me listen
Once more-God grant not in vain;
To my cheek the blood is springing
Like the blushes of a bride.
Joy!-alas! again the footsteps
Pass upon the other side.

Ah! how many wait forever,
For the steps that never come;
Wait until the pitying angels
Bear them to a heavenly home.
Many in the still of midnight,

In the streets have lain and died,
While the sound of human footsteps
Reached them from the other side.

Many a wretch has paused a moment,
Glancing round with crazy eyes;
Death looked up from gloomy waters,
Death looked down from darkened skies;
Paused, then leaped, where, God knows only,

He alone heard "Jesus" cried,

And the prayer, lost in the footsteps

Passing on the other side,