whilst they are awake, are in one common world; but that each of them, when he is asleep, is in a world of his own. The waking man is conversant in the world of nature: when he sleeps, he retires to a private world, that is particular to himself. There seems something in this consideration that intimates to us a natural grandeur and perfection in the soul, which is rather to be admired than explained.

I must not omit that argument for the excellency of the soul, which I have seen quoted out of Tertullian, namely, its power of divining in dreams. That several such divinations have been made, none can question who believes the holy writings, or who has but the least degree of a common historical faith; there being innumerable instances of this nature in several authors, both ancient and modern, sacred and profane. Whether such dark presages, such visions of the night, proceed from any latent power in the soul, during this her state of abstraction, or from any communication with the Supreme Being, or from any operation of subordinate spirits, has been a great dispute among the learned: the matter of fact is, I think, incontestable, and has been looked upon as such by the greatest writers, who have never been suspected either of superstition or enthusiasm.

I do not suppose that the soul, in these instances, is entirely loose and unfettered from the body: it is sufficient if she is not so far sunk and immersed in matter, nor entangled and perplexed in her operations with such motions of blood and spirits, as when she actuates the machine in its waking hours. The corporeal union is slackened enough to give the mind more play. The soul seems gathered within herself, and recovers that spring which is broken and weakened, when she operates more in concert with the body.

EXERCISE CLXXIV.

SONG OF THE MAY FASHIONS.

Anon.

FAIR May, to all fair maidens of May-Fair!
Ye matrons, too, the poet's greeting share;
May many a May to matron and to maid
Return without a grief, without a shade;

May all be gay from Middlesex to Mayo,
May never sigh be heaved or heard a heigh-ho!

All poets have their impulses and passions;
And mine it is to sing a song of Fashions,
Of bonnets, frills, and parasols, and capes,-
Of gauzes, guipures, marabouts, and crêpes,-
Of dresses, ribands, stomachers, and bustles,
And all that floats or flounces, waves or rustles;
Of trimmings, flowers, feathers, fringes, shawls,
For fêtes and dinners, operas and balls.

Be gracious, Maia, queen of merry May! As smooth as velvet make my summer lay; And if you be a millinery muse,

Airy Muslina, don't your aid refuse,

But come with Fancy in your gauzy train,
And leave the Gallic for the British plain;
Like your best needle let my verses shine,
And with your thimble shield each fearful line.

Oh! be propitious! Make me glib on
Cambrics, and profound on ribbon,
Learned in lamas, bright on satin,
Chemisettes and corsets pat in;
Aid me, lest I make a hash mere
Of mantilla, scarf, and Cashmere,—
Thus involve me in dilemmas

With the Graces, Maudes, and Emmas, -
Lest I get into quandaries,

Misdirecting Lady Maries;

Or damages may have to pay,

For leading Bell or Blanche astray;
Dishing Kate, deceiving Ellen,
Or misguiding Madam Helen,
By some costume which afar is
From the present mode of Paris.

Paris still is Helen's passion,
Paris still the glass of fashion.
Come Iris, too, with all your vivid hues!
Come Flora, with the dew-drops on your shoes!
For there will now be need of vernal dyes,

To suit young May, and charm the charmer's eyes,

Pale pinks, blue lilachs, and the softest greens,
For bonnets, ribands, silks, and bombazines;
And, Flora! mind you order all your bowers
To be profuse and prodigal of flowers.
Pray make the lazy lilies leave their bed,
To join in weaving crowns for beauty's head,
And bouquet-sceptres, for her royal hand;-
Beauty is queen of all by sea and land!
The daffodilly will not leave his cup;

But sure the temperate jonquille might be up.
Draw largely now upon your violet banks,
Your drafts will honoured be with ladies' thanks:
Mind, Flora! mind you order all your bowers
To be profuse of May's delicious flowers.

Say, first, what cap shall head of beauty wear,
Though seldom cap should be admitted there.
Tulle chiffonnée, with heather blossoms gay,
Or any other tiny flowers of May.

Plain on the forehead are the caps in vogue,
A matron's air they give each charming rogue;
Broad at the back a pretty curtain placed,
With flowery wreath is elegantly graced,
And where, on each side, at the ear it closes,
Deck it with bunches of the same small roses;
Or place a point, with fluted tulle surrounded,
Or with raised lappets, " à la paysanne" bounded,
And held in bonds of double-tinted gauze,

Lest in "the pride of place" it break through Fashion's laws.

Pass we now from caps to bonnets,

Hard to be discussed in sonnets;
What should be their shape and size,
To engage all female eyes?

In what hues should we baptize them,
That the fair may not despise them?
Bonnets now,-list, maidens all,
Bonnets now are rather small;
Fashioned in the prettiest shapes,
Of satins overlaid with crêpes.
Some with ribands trimmed, and some,
Trimmed with lace of France, become.
Of the pretty, prettiest far

Those in gros de Naples are;

Colour suited to the face,
Covered with appliqué lace,

Decked with branch of rosy bloom,
Or with smart feuillage de plume.
White straw bonnets are the mode, -
Some are worthy of an ode,
With a veil so thin and slight,
It seems woven of air and light.
Let marabouts around them cluster,
And lovers will not fail to muster.

Fashion now will always choose
Cheerful tints and vernal hues.
Proper now, the maiden thinks,
Softest greens, and palest pinks;
Captivated now she sees

Lilachs, blue, and French cerise,
But if she be light and merry,
Trick her out in English cherry.
Pretty colours! is it not,
Pity they should e'er be shot?
Western ladies chiefly prize

For ribands now your Eastern dyes.
Understand the East afar,

Not the east of Temple Bar.
Bavolets are deepening down,

And feathers flattening on the crown.

For colours, if you list my lay, You will still consult the May.

I have no more rules in store;

The law has been laid down before,-
Nothing dark, and nothing sad,

All be gay and all be glad.

Your greens you'll from the greenhouse choose,

From the sky select your blues.

Any garden-wall will teach

The most becoming shade of peach.

Dress in dark tints, you who dare!

'Tis high treason in May-Fair.

Should you pant to dress in brown, but go out of town!

Do so;

City dames their dowdy limbs on
Stiff display their odious crimson,

creation, become dimly discerned, he petitions less fervently for external good. As they wax clearer, his fears perish, his desires subside, his hopes pass through perpetual mutations till they become incorruptible; and his praise is of a kindred nature, however far inferior to that of the unseen world.

He henceforth regards the moving heavens only as they send their melodies through the soul; the forms of the earth only as they are instinct with life; and, no longer calling inanimate forms to witness his praises, he appeals from the infant on his bosom to the archangel who suspends new systems in the farthest void, for sympathy in his adoration of the Father of his spirit. Of higher subjects of praise, man knows not, nor can conceive. It is bliss enough to discern the end of human worship, (in kind, if not in degree,) and in some rare moments, in occasional glimpses of a celestial Sabbath, to reach it.

Oh! that our earthly Sabbaths could bear something of this character! But as long as so many ranks of mind join in its services, these services must be too high for some, and too low for others. Blessed is the season to multitudes, and holy its rites to innumerable worshippers. But its benefits are of a specific kind; its devotion is peculiar, and can in no degree supply the place of private communion. Alas! then, for those who join not in its rites; and alas! also for those who look not beyond its rites! Strange, that any should turn away coldly from the divinely-kindled altar, where multitudes are thronging to cast in their incense, and returning with the reflection of its glory in their faces! Yet more strange that any should avoid the still solitude where the fount of this glory welleth up forever!

EXERCISE CLV.

A CONNECTICUT FARM-HOUSE OF THE OLDEN TIME. Mrs. Sigourney.

It was a long, low, unpainted house, with narrow casements, situated about half a mile from the main road. Near it was a substantial barn, surrounded by a large yard, where a number of animals, assembled, exhibited an appearance of comfort, which denoted, at once, a kind and careful master.