the body or out of the body when I saw it; whether I fashioned it waking, or received it like a certain strange prophet-the one that rode the donkey-who fell into a trance "having his eyes open."

By the time that this paper shall come under the eyes of the readers of the Repository, the demise of the old year and the accession of the new one will be an old story. But at this writing the affair is not an old one, nor is the subject one that will spoil if kept for a few days. Now, I have detected a marked tendency in the mind of even this hard, matter-of-fact age toward the world of phantasy about the time of the year's closing. Formerly, when the public thinking was largely affected by ecclesiastical influences, this witching power was thought to have some relation to the occurrence of the great feast of the Advent-a very pleasant fancy, by the way; but the midnight of the closing year seems to me especially a weird season-though, since most people are then asleep, they know nothing of it. Asleep! Sancho Panza blessed the man that invented sleep, and in doing so he unwittingly discovered the nature of his appreciation of it: "It wraps a man up like a blanket." Ah, good Sancho! had you shared the great thoughts which pressed upon the brain and distorted the features of your great master, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, you might have had a less luxurious appreciation of the blessing of sleep. Then there is a kind of comatose waking-a sleep that is not wholly sleep-which, whether the result of physical or mental stimulants and narcotics, is of all others the most remarkable state of the soul. People will no doubt continue, as they have done, to laugh at whatever lies beyond the range of the senses and of the consciousness to which sensation gives being; but we who please, may still suspect with Hamlet, that there is much more in the world than such philosophy dreams of. The fact is, that one sees more in a few minutes in that superior state of the soul than he can review and set in order in as many days of poor every-day thought. Old remembrances, which had seemed to be wholly lost, then came forth in clear and fresh reality, and convictions and affections are awakened with a vividness and power that shame the dullness of our waking dreams. The distinction commonly made between the real and the ideal is arbitrary, and the assumption that the ideal is necessarily unreal is quite gratuitous. Because men have only five senses they are sensible of only the properties which these detect; had they fewer they would know less than they do, and had they more very possibly they would know more-for who shall say that our faculties cover the whole field of the objectively knowable? That there are objects of knowledge beyond the range of the senses is the settled belief of all true supernaturalists, whether religious or fantastical; and if so, to gain that knowledge may be the laudable ambition of an ingenuous mind. But this is not to my purpose.

Just about the time when the old year gave place to the new one, I was seated in my great arm-chair, while in the grate glowed ruddily the half-consumed anthracite. The gas was turned low, giving a dim twilight to the room; the gusts shook the shutters, and the rain pattered upon the window-panes, all

helping me to appreciate more fully the value of my modest surroundings. While thus watching the flickering forms that played in the interstices of the burning coals, and chased each other up and down, and occasionally mounted and vanished in the blue blazes, I fell into a reverie, and losing all consciousness of the sensibly present, my fancy went out to the funeral of the dying year. The common notion that funerals are necessarily occasions of sorrow I have long since cast away as, in another sense, common. Death is to be regarded regretfully only when the life which it terminates has failed of its purpose. When that is reached life may fitly give place to death, and so renew itself for a new career. The fall of the leaves gives me no sadness, and the old moon is just as bright to me as the new one. Were I a worshiper of the sun I would offer my devotions to him when in calm radiance he hastens to his evening declination, "remitting his splendor, but retaining his magnitude, and pleasing more though he dazzles less." So, too, I love to converse with very old persons, who, after the toils and conflicts of life, are quietly awaiting the expected release. There is to me something almost unearthly about these venerable ones, as belonging to a higher sphere; and when they depart, though I miss them, I do not mourn. All this I have written to assure my readers that though in fancy I went to the old year's funeral, I was not therefore in a sorrowful frame of mind.

At funerals we review the life-history of the departed; here, that delicacy which forbids the utterance of censures over the pale form of the dead sometimes imposes silence, which then becomes itself eloquent of warning and reproof. So in my reverie the history of the year 1859 passed in review before me. I am aware of the almost universal proclivity to exalt relatively the subject of one's present notice, and to make all one's characters heroes. Perhaps by some one annus mirabilis has been written against each year of the calendar. If, then, shall say that the last year has been fruitful of great events, some critic of the nil admirari order may shrug his shoulder and look wise. But I have not said so, and if I intimate as much, the facts presented must be my justification-or these failing, I must be condemned.

When twelve months since December vacated the chair of state and handed over the keys of office to January, the political world was enjoying a season of unwonted quiet. Old Janus ushered in the year with closed door. It was a time such as Christian poets love to sing of, when

Nor wars nor battle sound Was heard the world around.

For the time the helmed warrior leaned upon his spear, and the work of slaughter was staid. The rage of Sepoys, on the distant fields of India had been subdued, and peace again smiled upon that scourged yet ever-productive empire. At home our own "Sepoys" of Staten Island had ceased from violence, and they no longer carried conflagration and dismay to asylums of strangers and the hospitals of the sick and poor. The financial tornado which a year before had strewed the wrecks of fortunes over our commercial sea had passed away, and recovery was every

where in hopeful progress, and the people enjoyed the great New-Year holiday with quiet gladness. Even the great political volcano, which like Stromboli is never wholly asleep, and like Vesuvius has its great periodical eruptions, was then in its condition of minimum excitation. "Bleeding Kansas" had been permitted to stanch her wounds, and left to herself was at length in peace and prosperity. The "irrepressible conflict" was indeed then a recognized reality, but the combatants were only burnishing their weapons for future strifes. Europe's diplomacy, by which the world's affairs are held in a condition of "unstable equilibrium," had so fairly adjusted all things, that not only was there no war, but affairs presented an unusually quiet surface. Crowned heads had lately interchanged personal civilities; legitimacy had touched the hand of the parvenu of the Tuilleries; soldiers accustomed to meet only in hostile array on the battle-field mingled gayly in festive halls, and diplomats and cabinets talked of the reduction of standing armies. Every body congratulated every body else on the intente cordiale that prevailed in international affairs; and oversanguine-pardon the paradox-members of Peace Societies began to talk of the "obsolete trade of war."

The year passed on, and with it came a fair allotment of the vicissitudes that uniformly mark the course of time. It belongs not to my purpose to speak of private joys and sorrows-to explore that great ocean on which are driven hither and thither the infinitude of little things which make up the great aggregate of life's affairs, though doubtless the thousand nameless things of life contribute more largely to human joys and sorrows than do those which the annalist records and the historian discusses. The year 1859 gave to the eye of each of the readers of these lines an additional year-a gift received indifferently and almost unconsciously by childrengladly by youths of both sexes-thoughtlessly by those in the strength of early maturity of life-reluctantly by superannuated spinsters, the number of whose years exceeds their powers in arithmeticsadly by the old, for whom the past tells no approving story; and cheerfully by those whose gray hairs are found in the ways of wisdom. To many it has brought more marked changes. Of the cheerful circles that a year since sat down together, how few can now be assembled and find their number unbroken! How many eyes then beaming with joy and hope are now dim with sorrow or darkened with despair; and how many more are closed, never more to be opened upon the things of time! But stay; I am moralizing rather than dreaming; but it is wise to talk with our past hours.

My readers will not expect me to detail the story of the departed year, though to do so would not be a bootless labor. The calmness which distinguished its advent proved to be deceptive and transient. The strifes of fifty years ago burst suddenly from their shallow graves, and again shook the thrones of potentates and princes. The representatives of the old and the new-the past and the present-confronted each other upon the fields of Italy, the battle-field of nations, and frightened Europe gazed aghast upon the terrible collision. The suddenness of the irrup

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tion, and the gigantic armies found at once in complete readiness, indicate both the force of the antagonism of the parties and the superficiality of the covering that concealed that antagonism. And yet our world has never seen so splendid a military campaign as that of Napoleon III in Italy, in the spring and summer of 1859. Through years of peace, science had been contributing profusely to the resources of art, and now art passed these gifts over to the hands of war. Gunpowder and cannon are affairs of other times, as well as of our own, but under modern engineering they are very different things from what they used to be. But it was for this campaign to bring into service the noblest appliances of modern civilization upon the field of battle-to reconnoiter the enemy by balloons-to dispatch general orders by telegraph, and to bring troops into position by railroads. I am afraid, after all that we have heard about the blessings of modern improvements, that it may turn out that even these may be made the ministers of oppression and wrong. Like a sudden but violent thunder-storm, the campaign of Italy burst upon the world, and for a little time the lightning gleamed, and the thunder crashed fiercely, and then the tumult as suddenly ceased. But the cloud remains, and its blackness grows more intense, while the deep growlings of the hidden storm give proof that its violence is not wasted. This is a part of the inheritance of the new year.

At home, too, the public quiet has been interrupted, though the contending elements have been restrained within comparatively narrow limits, and our conflicts have been chiefly a war of words. But there are those who suspect that below the unbroken surface of our public affairs a volcano is burning which can not always be kept down, and who anticipate an increase rather than a mitigation of existing occasions of public agitation. It remains for the future historian to review the early days of the American republic, and from fully-developed phenomena to record for all time, whether or not our present strifes are the results of the normal developments of antagonistic elements in our social and political systems, or whether they are but incidental jostlings of a wholesome progress. And whatever shall be the determination, it can scarcely fail to appear that the closing period of the sixth decade of our century was a point of more than ordinary interest. But all this, the reader will begin to feel, is not to the point. I proposed to tell my dream, and have wandered off into sundry matters having little to do with dream-land. I will therefore come back, and go about my dreaming in good earnest. But, since to tell you all that might be told on this subject would be tedious, I will select what seems most appropriate.

The scene that opened to my fancy seemed a kind of universal Valhalla, where was brought together the affairs of the old year, as if to arrange them in proper order. I omit all but a single department of the many into which it seemed to be divided, each appropriated to a certain class of affairs and of men devoted to them. Of course, as your literary correspondent, Mr. Editor, I directed my chief attention to the department of letters, and learned men, which opened before me a little to the left of the place of

my entrance. On entering I was immediately struck with the most magnificent spectacle I had ever beheld. An immense temple extended before me of the richest materials and the most perfect workmanship, combining in its different compartments the architectures of all nations, and all so arranged as to perfectly harmonize and highten the beauties of each. Immediately in front was a vast area overhung by a dome like the sky for magnitude, carved, chased, and fretted, and the whole radiant with light, though no lamps were visible. In the opposite side of this area was a great porch or veranda, partly inclosed by a colonnade, which seemed to be the center of interest. Far down the left of this opened an almost interminable vista, skirted by Grecian colonnades, with groves and fountains, and a similar one of the Gothic order, with arches of living trees opened on the right. The whole space was full of men and women, walking up and down and engaged in easy conversation, as if gathered for some great occasion which was not yet brought on. One thing was especially remarkable, as soon as I looked at any one, I knew his name; and though many of their names were worse than Chootaw to me, yet among them recognized a good many of whom I had heard. Soon there was a universal hush, and every eye was turned toward the elevated porch. Looking thither I saw standing together, near its center, a group which included some of the most distinguished scholars of ancient and modern times, one of whom, which I discovered was Petrarch, seated himself upon a lofty throne, when an invisible herald, with a voice clearer than a trumpet and more mellifluous than a lute, proclaimed the hour of earth's midnight, and the close of the old year. The business of the occasion was then announced the initiation of a new class of members into the society of the literary Valhalla-for which it was said there was an unusually-distinguished body of candidates-the year's gathering from the schools of earth. A voice from the throne proclaimed their names and commanded them to be introduced. The first name heard was HALLAM. He immediately entered, conducted by a herald, and at his coming was heartily greeted by universal acclaim. Herodotus and Tacitus, De Thou and Sismondi greeted him personally, and untold multitudes gave him a grateful recognition as he passed onward toward the throne. Here he was again welcomed and assigned an elevated seat from which a curtain was removed, showing above it, in letters of light, the words "Middle Ages," and "Constitutional History;" a universal murmur of applause swelled through the multitude, and unseen musicians poured forth a sweet strain of melody, till the whole immense temple seemed instinct with sweet sounds. Again a name was announced, and Prescott appeared, erect and dignified in form, and graceful in motion, as he passed forward, greeted by Xenophon and Livy, Robertson and Arnold, and was seated beside his elder brother, with an appropriate legend above him-the titles of his works. Then came De Tocqueville, whom Plato greeted as having brought more than his republic within the range of the possible, and more as having made his Utopia no longer utopian; Hampden recognized him as his own fellow-laborer, and our own Hamilton

as the true expounder of his highest aspirations. Above his seat glowed in characters, that seemed to be ethereal and self-poised, the word "Democracies." Then Humboldt came, with solemn but elastic step, apparently little moved by the scene around him-so long and so deeply had he conversed with Nature that wonders however great, and pageants however brilliant, were familiar to his imagination. The ancients generally looked on him with reverential wonder, as of more than earthly frame, but Pliny claimed kindred with him, and Bacon, and Franklin, and Hugh Miller, and a brilliant retinue greeted him as a prince among savans. Above his lofty scat beamed out with peculiar brightness the single word Kosmos. The next in order was our own Irving, over whose new grave a nation's tears had so lately fallen, whose renown, however, belongs to all nations and to al! times. Calmly and cheerfully he entered, and even then the lines of quiet humor marked his face, and his eyes glowed with harmless raillery. Longinus and Quintilian claimed him as a master in rhetoric, in which, however, they were resisted by Addison and Charles Lamb, who claimed him as an essayist, and a host of historians put in their claims as better sustained. Inscribed over his seat were the words "Columbus" and "Washington," in parallel lines, and between these, in a confused mass, the various subjects of his facile pen. Of a large number of less distinguished names that were announced and duly recognized, I can give no account; but when the pageant was nearly through all suddenly a universal thrill passed over the multitude as the name of Macaulay was given. But the great essayist and historian still lives, thought I, but looking out I saw him approaching with a firm and elastic step, and a countenance at once fierce and benevolent. A shudder seemed to pass over a portion of the crowd as he entered. Dryden fell back from the path to give him a wide room, and Croker's attention seemed directed to another part of the temple. Boswell hastened to greet him, and confess his own infinite indebtedness to the reviewer's appreciation, but was not recognized. Johnson gazed sternly at him, and coolly returned his lordship's salutation. With Lord Mahon the meeting was mutually cordial, and that with Milton was much more than friendly. Niebuhr and Clarendon-for just then the "liberal" was lost sight of in the Lord-received him as especially belonging to the class of historians; and their claim seemed to be conceded, for above his seat glowed in bright characters, "History of England," and in smaller characters beneath this were the words "Edinburgh Review." The closing of this exercise was followed by a wide and universal applause, not loud nor boisterous, but like the murmuring of the softly-rippled sea upon the gently-sloping shore, and then followed sweet strains of music in air and earth, from arch and colonnade, till the whole temple seemed melting into sweet sounds. I began to feel that I should soon realize that highest dream of sentimentalists, and be dissolved in harmony; but just then the coals in my grate, wasted by long burning, fell in a mass of cinders, and dissolved also my baseless vision. I afterward wrote it out, and now send it to you, dear Editor, to use it as you please.

HELPS AND ENCOURAGEMENTS.—We find them in the assurance that the friends of the Repository, as well as its subscribers, are still on the increase. At this writing the summation for the year is far from being reached. But enough is known to assure us that, notwithstanding the almost unprecedented pressure in the money market, especially in the west, during the months of December and January, when the lists were being renewed, our course is still upward. A large number of the pastors, in every part of the Church, have entered into the work with a heartiness and zeal that insured success in spite of all obstacles. Their substantial returns and their words of cheer we are unable to acknowledge in terms that would express all we feel. The satisfaction derived from the result, we doubt not, is mutually shared. It is certain that the Repository will visit more homes during the present year than ever before.

WOMEN ARTISTS.-We omit our promised article in this series. Already our editorial contributions cover too much space; and we could not quite consent to monopolize the entire number.

CREDITS should have been given to Chambers's Journal for Aunt Janet's Diamonds, and to Christian Miscellany for the Lesson of Faith.

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ARTICLES DECLINED." The Resurrection of the Widow's Son" is unaccompanied by the name of the author; it is well written, but too long. Happiness is too carelessly written. "Character the only true index of Progress" is too exuberant in verbiage. A nameless sketch by ML is too spasmodic. "Jealousy" is a pretty good school-girl's composition, but will hardly answer for our pages. Perhaps the author of "Immediately the Cock Crew" might succeed in a shorter poem. "Temperance," "The Future," "Virtue," "Winchester and Davis's Shirt Manufactory," "The Pretty Foot," "The Sloping Way," and "The Cedars of Lebanon," can hardly find access in the crowded state of our pigeon holes.

OUR CONTRIBUTORS must have patience. A long list of articles are on file, and a long time must elapse before we can give place to them all.

CONDENSE your articles. Resolve to say as much as possible in the least possible space. We have been compelled to abridge two or three articles in order to get them into this number. We have tried, however, to preserve their full force and expression.

REV. S. D. SIMONDS gives us, in this number, the first of a series of sketches of life and missionary labors in California.

THE CENTENARY OF AMERICAN METHODISM.-This question is being discussed with considerable spirit. It is 1760 versus 1766. It is possible that Philip Embury preached in this country prior to 1766. It

is probable, perhaps quite certain, that Robert Strawbridge both preached and baptized children, in this country, prior to 1766. But it appears to us that the real date of the origin of Methodism in this country is when it developed organic life; assumed a living, self-perpetuating form; entered upon its actual and historical career. This was unquestionably in 1766. If our centennial as a Church is to be celebrated, we think the almost universal voice of the people-in accordance with the traditions of our history, and the currents of thought and feeling in which we have been educated-would be for 1766. No earlier date can be fixed that would so harmonize with the feelings of our people; none that would be free from doubt in the minds of tens of thousands. Our verdict is in favor of 1766. Let us have it then; and let it be worthy of ourselves as a people, and of the great things God has done for us.

THE WESTERN BOOK CONCERN.-The annual Exhibit of the Agents of this Concern is before us. Before this reaches our readers, it will have been communicated through other channels to the public. The institution is on a substantial basis, having a net capital of $222,212.73. During the four years ending with the ensuing May, heavy burdens have been borne. An outlay of over $30,000 was required to erect buildings and secure facilities in Chicago. The round loss-sunk by publishing the Central Christian Advocate-has reached in three years, $15,213.09, and will be considerably increased by the time of the General conference. The obligation to the Church South-now happily extinguished-was another heavy drain. Notwithstanding all these burdens, the Western Book Concern has gone on with financial credit unimpaired, and each year adding to its net capital. Four years more of continued prosperity, and without any additional burden, will bring it into excellent working order. Then will it be able to devote itself to its one great object-the supplying of the Church with an abundant and cheap Christian literature.

ONE MORE SUBSCRIBER.-The Agents tell us they want one more subscriber from every pastor in the field. Just ONE more from each! That would give us over SIX THOUSAND additional subscribers, and over 40,000 in all! Shall we have them, brethren? Is there not some family in your charge-or some lady or gentleman-just at hand, who would willingly take the Repository, and to whom its visits would prove a blessing?

Let us enlarge the invitation. How many of our subscribers could get for us another? Show your copy to your neighbor. Let him see the engravingsthe beautiful title-page of the January number, the illustrated Lord's Prayer in February. Get the subscription price, hand it to your preacher; or, if that is not convenient, forward it yourself to the nearest place of publication.