ium, quickens the course of the blood in the veins; every effort in such a contest springs from the most profound internal devotion. On the visage of those generous citizers nothing is seen at first but the greatest calm; there is too much dignity in their emotions for outward demonstrations, but the moment the signal is heard, the national flag floating in the air, you will see those looks which were formerly so sweet, and ready to become so at the view of misfortune, all of a sudden animated by a holy and terrible will! Wounds and blood even will no longer cause any shuddering; it is no longer a pang, it is no longer death, it is an offering to the God of armies; no regret, no uncertainty, mingle themselves then with the most desperate resolutions. And when the heart is absorbed in its object, we experience the highest enjoyment of existWhen man divides his devotions, he feels life only as an affliction; and if, of all sentiments, enthusiasm produces the most happiness, it is because it unites more than any other all the forces of the soul in one common focus.

ence.

The labors of the mind seem to many writers an occupation almost entirely mechanical, and which fills up their lives as any other business; it is still something to prefer that one; but do such men have an idea of the sublime bliss of thought, when it is animated by enthusiasm? Do they know to what degree we are penetrated with hope, when we believe that by the gift of eloquence we are manifesting a profound truth, a truth which forms a generous bond of union between us and all the souls sympathizing with ours? Writers without enthusiasm, know nothing about a literary career, except of critics, rivalries, jealousies and all that which menaces. tranquility, when we mingle with the passions of men; those attacks and those acts of injustice sometimes do harm; but can the true, the real enjoyment of talent be altered? When a book appears, what happy moments has it not already procured to the one who wrote it from his heart, and as an act of his worship! How many tears full of mildness has he not, in his sclitude, shed over the mysteries of life, of love, of glory and of religion! Finally, in his reveries, has he not enjoyed the air, like a bird; the waters, like a thirsty hunter; the flowers, like a lover who fancies he is still breathing the perfumes which surround his mistress? In the world one feels oppressed by his faculties, and often suffers on account of being the only one of his nature, in the midst of so many beings who live at so little cost; but the creative talent satisfies, for some time at least, all our desires; it has its riches and its crowns, it offers to our view the luminous and pure images of an ideal world, and its power extends sometimes even to make us hear in our hearts the voice of a cherished object.

Do those not possessed of an enthusiastic imagination believe that they know the world, do they believe they have ever traveled? Do their hearts beat responsive to the echoes of the mountains? Have they felt themselves imbued with the gentle languor of the

southern air? Do they understand the diversity of countries, the accent and the character of foreign idioms? Do they perceive in the popular songs and national dances the manners and the genius of a country? Is one single sensation enough to awaken within them a train of associations?

Can nature be felt by men without enthusiasm? Can they commune with her about their cold interests, their miserable desires? What do the sea and the stars answer to the narrow vanities of each man during each day? But if our soul is moved, if it looks for a God in the universe, if even it wishes for more glory and love, there are clouds which speak to it, torrents which may be questioned, and the wind in the heath seems to deign to tell us something of that which we love.

Men without enthusiasm think they have a taste to enjoy the fine arts; they love the elegance of luxury, they wish to be judges of music and painting, so as to speak with grace, and even with that tone of superiority which belongs to a man of the world, whether the subject under discussion be of imagination or nature; but all their dry pleasures, what are they in comparison with those of genuine enthusiasm? What emotion arises within one's bosom while contemplating the look of Niobé, of that calm and terrible grief which seems to accuse the gods of having been jealous of the happiness of a mother! What a consolation the appearance of beauty occasions! For beauty belongs also to the soul, and the admiration which it inspires is noble and pure. To admire the Apollo, is it not necessary to feel in one's self a kind of pride which tramples under foot all the serpents of earth? Is it not necessary to be a Christian in order to appreciate the expression of the Madonnas of Raphael and of the Saint Jerome of Dominichino? to re-discover the same expression in the enchanting grace and in the dejected countenance, in the brilliant youth, and in the disfigured features; the same expression which emanates from the soul and shoots, like a celestial ray, athwart the aurora of life or the shadows of advanced age.

Is there any music for those who are incapable of enthusiasm ? A certain habit renders harmonious sounds necessary for them, they enjoy them as they do the flavor of fruits, the variety of colors; but does their entire frame tremble like a lyre, when the silence of midnight is suddenly agitated by songs or by those instruments which resemble the human voice? Have they then felt the mystery of existence, in that tender spell which reunites our two natures, and blends the sensations and the soul in one common rapture? Have the palpitations of their hearts moved in unison with the rhythm of the music? Has an emotion overwhelmingly charming brought to their eyes those tears, which have nothing personal, those tears which ask for no pity, but which free us from a suffering inquietude, excited by the necessity of admiring and of loving? The taste for the drama is universal, for the majority of men

have more imagination than they think, and that which they consider as the attraction of pleasure, as a sort of effeminacy which more properly belongs to a child, is often the best trait they possess; while they are viewing scenes of imagination, they are true, natural, moved; but when they mingle in the world, they are marked by dissimulation, calculation and vanity, in their words, their sentiments and their actions. But do those men feel all that a really fine tragedy inspires, who consider the portraiture of the most profound affections, as nothing more than an amusing dissipation? Have they any idea of the delicious agitation which passions chastened by poetry produce? Ah! how many pleasures fancy affords! It interests us without giving birth either to remorse or fear, and the sensibility which it developes, has not that keen anguish, from which real affections are seldom exempt.

What magic poetry and the fine arts lend to the language of love! How beautiful it is to love by heart and thought in unison! to give a thousand-fold variation to a sentiment which a single word can express, but for which all the words of the world are only misery! to imbue our being with the master-pieces of the imagination, all of which partake of love, and to discover, in the mysteries of nature and of genius, additional expressions to reveal our own hearts!

What have they experienced, they who have not admired the woman they loved, they in whom the sentiment is not a hymn of the heart, and for whom grace and beauty are not the celestial image of the most touching affections? What has she felt, she who has not seen in the object of her choice a grand protector, a strong and gentle guide, whose glance commands and solicits, and who on his knees receives the right of disposing of her destiny? What inexpressible delights serious thoughts occasion when blended with the liveliest impressions! The tenderness of that friend, depositary of our happiness, must bless us at the portals of the tomb, as in the hey-day of youth; and all the solemnity of existence is changed into delicious emotions, when love is charged with the duty, as among the ancients, to kindle and extinguish the torch of life.

If enthusiasm intoxicates the soul with happiness, it also sustains it in misfortune with a singular power; it leaves behind it a certain indescribable luminous and deep trace, which does not allow even absence to efface us from the heart of our friends. It also affords us a refuge from the bitterest pangs, and it is the only sentiment which can calm without chilling.

The simplest affections, those which all hearts believe they are capable of feeling, maternal love, filial love, can one believe they are known in their fullness, when they are not mingled with enthusiasm? How can one love a son, without entertaining the flattering hope, that he will be noble and proud, without wishing for him the glory which will multiply his life, which will make us hear every where the name which our heart repeats? Why may not one enjoy

with transport the talents of a son, the charms of a daughter? What singular ingratitude towards the Deity! What indifference for his gifts! are they not from heaven, since they render it easier for one to please those they love?

If some misfortune, however, should deprive our child of these advantages, the same sentiment would then take another form: it would arouse within us pity, sympathy and the pleasure of being necessary to its happiness. In all circumstances, enthusiasm animates or consoles; and even when the most cruel blow is aimed at us, when we loose the one who gave us life, the one who loved us like a guardian angel, who inspired us at once with a respect without fear and a confidence without bounds, enthusiasm then comes to our relief; it gathers in our breast some sparks of the soul which has taken its flight towards the skies, we live in its presence, and we promise ourselves to transmit hereafter the history of its life. We believe that his paternal hand will never, no never altogether abandon us in this world, and nis gentle form will lean towards us to sustain us before calling us away.

At last when the great struggle comes, when we, in our turn, must join in the conflict with death, the weakness of our faculties, the loss of our hopes, that life once so brilliant, now obscured, that' crowd of sentiments and ideas which dwelt in our bosom and which are enveloped by the darkness of the tomb, those interests, those affections, that existence which is changed into a phantom before it vanishes away, all that, is doubtless afflicting, and the common man appears, when he expires, to have less of death to die! But thanks be to God for the assistance which he affords us in this moment; our words may be vague, our eyes no longer see the light, our reflections, which once were brilliantly linked together, may wander in isolation only over cloudy traces; but enthusiasm will not abandon us, its brilliant wings will hover around our dying couch, it will raise the veils of death, it will recall to our mind those moments when, full of energy, we felt that our hearts were imperishable, and our last sigh perhaps will be like a noble thought reascending to heaven.

"O France! land of glory and of love! if enthusiasm should ever be extinguished from thy soil, if calculation should dispose of all things, and reason alone inspire a contempt for perils, what would your beautiful heaven, your brilliant intellects, your fruitful nature avail thee! An active intelligence, a shrewd impetuosity may render you mistress of the world, but you will leave on the world only the trace of torrents of sand; terrible as the flood, barren as the desert."*)

⚫) This last expression is that which excited the strongest indignation of the police against my book; it seems to me, however, that it should not have displeased Frenchmen.-Madame De Stael.

SONNET TO GOETHE.

(Selected.)

Thou art the Master Spirit of thy time,
The universal genius, grasping mind,
Who, from confusion, order hast combined,
And flung thy eagle glance o'er every clime.
From earliest youth, to manhood's rarest prime,
By thee, the labyrinthine web's untwined,
Of secret springs, that agitate mankind,

That promise bliss, or urge them on the crime.
In vain Germania claims thee for her own,

O'er the wide world, broods thy creative spirit,
Compeer with Shakspeare, thou, the glorious throne
Of lofty thought, forever shalt inherit;

For wisdom thou hast gathered from a stone,

And in the meanest plant, discovered wond'rous merit.

GIRLS.

LOUISA, a little girl, who was born on the 19th of September, 1841, and who lives not very many squares from the Court House in St. Louis, began about New Year, 1851, to work a quilt-partly for fun-partly for use.

She was going to school the same time, learning to spell, to read and to write, and studying grammar, arithmetic and geography; and so she worked on her quilt only during her spare time, and mostly at night, while sitting by the side of the lamp and the fire, with her Father and Mother.

How large do you think the quilt was? 23 yards each way-square. There were 9 worked blocks each way and 8 pieces in each block. There were also 8 plain blocks each way, one between each one of the worked-blocks. Besides there was a border 9 inches wide, all the way around, except at the corners, which were filled out with four blocks, one on each corner-each of these blocks being 9 inches square. So the whole quilt was made of 720 pieces. It was all worked in wave-quilting. She worked it all herself; and in two months it was done. Louisa has also made other kinds of needle-work-in worsted-letters, mottoes, roses, an anchor, a church and other articles.

What is more than all, besides being lively as a cricket, she is gentle as a dove.

Now is there another little girl in St. Louis, who so honors, and is such an honor to her Father and Mother, as Louisa? Is there one who will not love Louisa for her taste? Mothers may remember that the wife of the Grecian hero Ulysses was distinguished for the work of her own hand, and that the wife of Napoleon made, and prided herself in making, ornamental needle-work a fashionable occupation.

May not Louisa also win a hero, as well as Josephine of France, once a little Creole girl of America? May we hear often hereafter of other little girls as tasty and lovely as she; and only think what a comfortable world we would soon have, if all the girls were like LOUISA!