xhxMi^ 0f €)0\\p^^^. 
 
4/r:-^n.,' -aca^^^ 
 
 PRIZE 
 
 COMPOSITIONS, 
 
 WRITTEN BY MEMBERS OF THE 
 
 ALBANY FEMALE ACADEMY, 
 
 BEAD AT ITS TWENTY-EIGHTH ANNIVERSARY, 
 
 JVIiY 16, 1841. 
 
 ALBANY : 
 
 PUBLISHED BY ERASTUS H. PEASE, 82 STATE ST. 
 1841. 
 
-^c;m^ 
 
PKIZE ESSAYS. 
 
 SILENCE. 
 
 BY MISS MARGARET ROBINSON, 
 
 or XKW-YORK. 
 
 Mysterious power, thy magic reign o'er countless worlds pre- 
 sides, 
 Far as the planets wheel their course, or roll the distant tides; 
 Earth, Ocean, Heaven, alike thy sphere, no limit to thy sway ; 
 The restless sea, and warring wind, thy secret power obey. 
 
 Before the morning stars were formed, that deck yon azure sky, 
 Or mountains reared, in lofty pride, their towering summits 
 
 high ; 
 Before the chambers of the east with gorgeous folds were hung, 
 Or echoing back to angel harps its vaulted arches rung, 
 
 Silence was there — on all around its holy influence fell, 
 And Nature owned throughout her works, the magic of the 
 
 spell ; 
 The angels, robed with radiant light, in quiet beauty shone ; 
 And silence was the unmeasured praise they gave to God 
 
 alone. 
 
 The earth a boding stillness keeps, when the tempest gathers 
 
 round — 
 A pulseless silence, far more dread than e'en the tempest's 
 
 sound; 
 When turns the wing of the forest bird, affrighted to her nest, 
 And the heart of the mother to the babe that's cradled on her 
 
 breast. 
 
4 
 
 When tempests howl along the setis, and angry billows roar's 
 And the vexed waters lash in rage, the deep resounding shore 5 
 And high above the deaf'ning blast, the thunder peal is given, 
 Like Sinai's trumpet long and loud, that shook the gates of 
 Heaven ; 
 
 Then, everlasting Silence reigns, deep, deep beneath those 
 waves; 
 
 The noise of waters never comes within their coral caves ; 
 
 The mermaids deck their flowing locks, with gems like morn- 
 ing dew. 
 
 And flowers unfold their petals, bright, with all the rainbow's 
 hue. 
 
 When worn with toil and wasting care, the mind in frenzy burns^ 
 To Silence, as a refuge safe, in hope and trust it turns ; 
 And on the soul its influence falls, like dew on Hermon's mount, 
 More grateful than the cooling rill from Horeb's gushing fount. 
 
 In silence speaks the feeling deep, that Words may not impart j 
 And Silence is the untutored voice that tells a broken heart : 
 It tells of sorrow far too deep to reach the speaking eye — 
 A settled gloom that asks for rest — but not beneath the sky. 
 
 When rapture fills the trusting heart, as rain drops fill the rose, 
 'Till bending 'neath the treasured wealth, its petalled cup 
 
 o'erflows ; 
 Vain, vain are words to speak the bliss ; but breast to breast 
 
 allied. 
 Pours forth, in tears of silent joy, the soul's o'erburthened tide. 
 
 The spirit communes vsrith its God, when the passions all are 
 
 still. 
 And restless thoughts are slumbering, like mist upon the hill . 
 The free soul pours its incense forth, of gratitude and praise. 
 For loved ones clust'ring round the board, for health and 
 
 length of days. 
 
 ******** 
 
 And when the prophet of the Lord by Horeb's mountain stood, 
 Faint with the perils of the way, by vengeful foes pursued, 
 
Listening to hear the voice of God, his onward steps to guide, 
 Where danger lurked on every hand, and death on every side j 
 
 Then, lo ! a mighty wind passed by, and rent the mountain 
 
 top — 
 And from its firm foundation deep it broke the solid rock ; 
 But in the wind no voice was heard to greet his list'ning ear, 
 And terror crept along his veins, and in his bosom, fear. 
 
 Then came the earthquake, but not yet his Maker's voice was 
 
 heard ; 
 And fire passed by^ but not in fire was yet the welcome word ; 
 But when the tumult all was o'er, and naught but silence near, 
 The " still small voice," in accents mild, fell on his list'ning 
 
 ear : 
 
 And Silence reigned in Heaven above — no sound nor voice 
 
 was heard ; 
 No murm'ring note of rapturous joy the holy quiet stirred : 
 From angel harp, or seraph lute, breathed not the lightest tone. 
 While white-robed bands of angel forms stood circling round 
 
 the throne. 
 
 With heads bowed down in silence low, and pinions closely 
 prest, 
 
 All bright and blissful in repose, and glorious in their rest : 
 
 'Twas the peace of God in stillness felt, pure, holy and in- 
 tense — 
 
 *Twas the joy of spirits purified, unmixed vnih aught of senses 
 ******** 
 
 And when this earth shall pass away, and the heavens are no 
 
 more — 
 When darkness broods where sun and moon had shed their 
 
 light before — 
 When nature's voice is hushed in death — then, in her pride 
 
 again, 
 Triumphant o'er the chaos wide, shall deathless Silence reign ! 
 
BY MISS CATHARINE C. ABEEL, 
 
 OK ALBION, Oa:.EAN3 CO. 
 
 PARALLELE ENTRE CORNEILLE ET 
 RACINE. 
 
 Tous ceux qui out du gout et de la deiicatesse iie peuvent 
 manquer d'etre interesses et d'avoir leurs idees du beau et du 
 sublime singulierement augmentees en lisant Corneille et 
 Racine, deux des plus celebres ecrivains draraatiques qui 
 aient jamais vecu, et dont les ceuvres ont si justement excite 
 une admiration universelle. Ces deux grands hommes, qui 
 ecriverent a des epoques differentes, ont eu autrefois et ont 
 maintenant leurs amis, leurs partisans, et leurs critiques. Ce- 
 pendant tout le monde s'accorde a dire que, quoique leurs beau- 
 tes soient d'un genre tout diiferent, chacun est incomparable 
 dans ses oeuvres. Nos emotions en les lisant different beau- 
 coup. Les tragedies de Corneille font eprouver non seule- 
 ment du plaisir, mais aussi une elevation de sentiments qui 
 arrive au plus haut degre. On s'etonne que les caracteres 
 soient si grands, et les sentiments si Aleves. On s'imagine 
 entendre parler, non des hommes, mais des demi-deux. Au 
 contraire, en lisant celles de Racine, nous nous livrons insen- 
 siblement a nos emotions ; et a mesure que nous lisons nous 
 sommes excites et emus, nous essayons a voir tous les evene- 
 mens qu'il decrit se passer devant nos yeux, tant ses tableaux 
 sont vraisemblables. 
 
 Be la, nous commen^ons naturellement a examiner la 
 cause de cette difference dans nos emotions ; enfin, nous ar- 
 rivons a la conclusion que I'un de ces grands hommes a peint 
 la nature et les passions comme elles sont, et que I'autre, sui- 
 
vant son geni-e noble et elove, nous a menes au dessus des 
 faiblesses de ce monde, et a represente las homnies parfaits, 
 doues des sentiments plus nobles que les notres, et exempts 
 de ces passions violentes qui sont le partage des humains, 
 C'est pour celte raison que les ouvrages de Corneille nous in- 
 teressent moins que ceux de Eacine, ou la nature est decrite 
 dans toute la simplicite, ou le cosur est demasque, et ou toutes 
 les nuances delicates de la sensibilite et de la passion sont 
 peintes avec une addresse si exquise que le lecteur tressaille 
 insensiblement. En lisant les caracteres qu'il a decrits avec 
 tant de force, specialement ceux d'Hermione et de Phedre ou 
 les labyrinthes compliques du coeur sont exposes a la vue, et 
 ou les passions son peintes avec des couleurs aussi vives que 
 vrais, nous sommes forces d'avouer que Eacine, Eacine seul a 
 compris les mouvemens sans nombre du coeur humain. C'est 
 pour cette cause aussi que les emotions que nous eprouvons en 
 lisant les ouvrages de Corneille tiennent plus au sublime qu'au 
 beau; on admire les caracteres qu'il decrit, et les sentiments 
 qu'il peint nous transportent, mais ils ne nous emeuvent pas 
 comme ceux de Eacine. Par exemple, le noble devouement 
 des Horaces, la vertu stoique de vieux pere de ces heros, et 
 I'amour du pays qui excite un frere a immoler sa soeur, pro- 
 duisent en nous des emotions qui tiennent au terrible plus 
 qu'au sublime. Nous ne pouvons concevoir cette vertu fa- 
 rouche, qui sacrifice a son pays les liens les plus doux et les 
 plus sacres qu'il y ait sur la terre. En lisant ces caracteres 
 nous sommes forces de nous eerier: Eacine a peint, il est 
 vrai, de grand es passions, mais Corneille a peint de grands 
 caracteres. 
 
 Bien des gens ont attribue cette difference entre le style de 
 ces deux autres aux circonstances dans lesquelles ils furent 
 places. Corneille ecrivait ses tragedies sous le regne ora- 
 geux du ministre de Eichelieu, et Eacine sous le regne plus 
 heureuse de Louis Quatorze. Ceci peut sans doute avoir con- 
 tribue a produire une difference entre leur style. D'ailleurs, 
 Corneille avait naturellement un esprit tres fort, un imagina- 
 tion elevee, et la force et la grandeur dominent dans ses tra- 
 gedies. II etat comme seul dans son art ; il n'avait point de 
 
8 
 
 censeurs, car son genie le porta au dessus de tous ses contem- 
 porains et consequemment au dessus de leurs critiques. 
 
 Racine etait ne avec une imagination vive, et avec toutes 
 ces qualites si necessaires pour former un ecrivain tragique ; 
 il ecrivait ses pieces a I'epoque la plus polie du monde, et il 
 avait pour contemporains des intelligences du premier ordre. 
 Andromaque est son premier chef-d'oeuvre, et dans celui-la il 
 egale les plus beaux ouvrages de Corneille. II ecrivit ensuite 
 Iphigenie, Phedre et Athalie ; et quelle beaute, quelle har- 
 monie de versification, quelle purete de diction, on trouve 
 partout dans ces pieces ! On ne peut rien aj outer ni rien 
 changer sans nuire a cette beaute de style qui est a lui seul. 
 Racine est le premier qui ait bien peint I'amour sur le theatre 
 Fran^ais, et il le montre dans toute sa fureur dans Hermione 
 et dans Phedre. Je pense que cette passion, dans les trage- 
 dies de Corneille, est trop froide pour etre naturelle. 
 
 II me semble qu'il y a plus de force dans le style de Cor- 
 neille, et plus d'elegance dans celui de Racine ; qu'il y a 
 plus de vigueur dans les expressions de celui-la, et que celles 
 de Racine sont plus ornees. 
 
 Le style de Racine est fait pour produire la pitie et la ter- 
 reur, celui de Corneille pour produire la sublimite ; consequem- 
 ment I'effet des pieces de celui-ci est moins touchant et 
 moins attendrissant que I'efFet des pieces de celui-la. Racine 
 fait verser des larmes, Corneille excite des transports ; Racine 
 interesse toujours le lecteur, mais Corneille devient quelque- 
 fois trop froid pour y reussir. Cependant il y a des choses 
 plus belles dans Corneille que dans Racine, et il y a souvent 
 plus d'elevation dans les sentimens. 
 
 Corneille a bien peint les mceurs et les vertus des Remains 
 dans les Horaces, et la peinture des juifs dans I'Athalie de 
 Racine ne peut etre surpassee; cette tragedie me plait beau- 
 coup, quoiqu'il n'y ait ni amour ni intrigue ; le langue en est 
 si beau ! 
 
 Soit que mon gout penche plus vers I'elegance que vers la 
 sublimite, soit que j'aime mieux etre emue et attendrie qu'e- 
 tonnee et maitrisee, les tragedies de Racine me plaisent plus 
 que celles de Corneille. 
 
^t» ^v(?e (JTomposftfoit of ttje #frst iBepartjnent. 
 
 BY MISS JENNETTE M. HALL, 
 
 OF OWEGO, TIOGA CO. 
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF BEING. 
 
 Man is wonderful ! visible I and invisible ! mortal ! and 
 immortal ! Dust of the earth ! breath of heaven ! The mas- 
 ter work of Deity. Upon him is the impress of the Eternal, 
 and about him are wrapped transcendent mysteries. Who 
 can comprehend or explore his commingled natuie ? He is 
 endowed with faculties with which he can reveal the hidden 
 things of earth, soar amid the splendors of the starry heaven, 
 number its brilliant throng, and measure their greatness as he 
 passes on through the infinite universe. — But when he returns 
 to himself, he finds that all his powers are unable to fathom 
 the depth of his own being. As he looks upon his physical 
 frame, which is so curiously, exquisitely formed, and contem- 
 plates its complex and delicate arraifigements, iis intricate com- 
 binations, and harmonious movements, he is filled with admi- 
 ration and astonishment ; but hid from him are the causes of 
 its muscular action. He cannot trace its chemical changes, or 
 discover the mysterious fluid or principle by which the nerves 
 transmit intelligence. Unknown to him is the origin of that 
 genial heat which warms ami animates his frame, and con- 
 cealed from him are the secret sources of life. Eut this is only 
 the beginning of mystery. Connected with his organized body 
 is something which he feels is self. It thinks, reasons, and 
 wills ; he calls it soul ; but what is it ? He can gain no knowl- 
 edge of it from his senses, by its operations he may become 
 familiar with some of its powers and susceptibilities. But 
 when he asks what it is, there is no answer save its silent as- 
 pirations. 
 
10 
 
 To remove the clouds of obscurity which surround it, has en-' 
 gaged the noblest intellects, and called forth their strongest 
 energies; but after having exhausted all their powers, they 
 have been obliged to acknowledge their inability to accomplish 
 their purpose. 
 
 Its nature is not only veiled in mystery, but many of its op-* 
 erations. It gains its ideas by the assistance of the senses* 
 but by what means the senses convey intelligence to the mind, 
 to man is unknovv-n. It is effected by agents so subtle that 
 even his consciousness cannot detect them. 
 
 Neither can he descend through the deep and mystic course 
 which leads to the fount from which issue thoughts with all 
 their new and varied beauty. It is far too deep to be revealed 
 to mortal vision. 
 
 And beyond his reach is that wondrous reservoir which re-" 
 ceives the mighty tide of thought. He feels that it exists, he 
 has given it a name, but who knows, or vi^ho can describe it ? 
 Within it are treasured all the impressions and fond imagin- 
 ings of years that are past. Still he is not conscious of their 
 presence, or even existence, until they are brought from their 
 secret retreat. Sometimes they come forth unbidden, some^ 
 times in obedience to the mandates of the will, at others all 
 the energies of the soul might be wasted in futile efforts to call 
 them from their mysterious depths. 
 
 Scenes and emotions which have long since passed away, 
 by conception may be recalled with a vividness that almost 
 equals reality. Is it not wonderful, that when surrounded by 
 darkness, or when the eye has ceased to perform its office, 
 man may yet enjoy the beauties of nature, and be cheered by 
 the countenances of those most dear ? 
 
 But still more wonderful is his power of imagination. With 
 it he can wander through fields of light and beauty — roam 
 through the pearly caves of the deep blue sea, form worlds, 
 people them with fair and holy beings, and live in the new and 
 varied scenes of his own creation. 
 
 The mysteries of Reason, that noble faculty which distin* 
 guishes man from the lower orders of creation, are inscrutable. 
 Although by it he is prepared to investigate truth-— to discov* 
 
11 
 
 er the relations which objects and facts sustain to each other 
 — to explore the dark future, and to read in the boundless fields 
 of nature the character of God — yet, he is unable to trace its 
 own operations. And notwithstanding it is a part of himself, 
 and its movements are his own, still he cannot describe them ; 
 they are unknown to him. 
 
 And no less mysterious is the Will. It is the imperial mon- 
 arch of man ; and guides each thought, each word and act. 
 Its slightest influences, as well as its most imperious dictates, 
 are felt and obeyed. In it lies man's power. It is this which 
 gives him dignity and nobleness : it is this which shall decide 
 his eternal destiny. But how it performs its acts or communi- 
 cates its mandates, is beyond his investigation. 
 
 What can be more wonderful than the Passions ; the mystic 
 movers of man ? Like the elements, some of them burst forth 
 in raging tempests ; others come like the soft evening breeze. 
 But there are times when they are hushed, and sleep like an 
 infant on its fond mother's breast ; and when lulled to repose 
 like spirits of air, they then are unseen. Vast are the chan- 
 ges they effect. One moment he may be like an angel of 
 mercy ; the next, like a demon of darkness. When his heart 
 is warmed with affection, and he seems all kindness and gen- 
 tleness, a word, or even a look, may arouse convulsive anger ; 
 and, trembling with rage, he is ready for cruelties the most 
 atrocious. To-day he may be noble and courageous : to-mor- 
 row, base and cowardly : at one time he may be indifferent to 
 everything ; at another, awake to all beauty and harmony. 
 What an amazmg combination ! though differing so widely, 
 they join to make one perfect Avhole. 
 
 Man is a wonderful being ! He has a moral nature, which 
 enables him to distinguish between right and wrong. He is 
 surrounded by temptations to sin, but this is his unerring guide 
 to truth. As virtue to him is attainable, this points him to 
 objects worthy of his noble endowments. It restrains his 
 grosser passions, illumines the pathway to another world, and 
 raises the heart, with grateful emotions, to the Source of all 
 good. 
 
 In mysterious whispers the soul speaks its own imperisha- 
 
12 
 
 bility, and no one who will listen to the gentle but convincing 
 voice within its secret depths, can doubt his immortality. 
 
 But man, this noble and unrivaled specimen of the work- 
 manship of God, must die! Yes! "He comelh forth like a 
 flower and is cut down : he fleeth like a shadow and continu- 
 eth not;" but whea the heavens are no more he shall awake 
 from his sleep, and having the impress of immortality, he shall 
 remain as long as eternity its endless round pursues, or He 
 who knows no beginning shall exist. To live is strange! but 
 to die and yet live is amazing ! 
 
 The influence that mind exerts over mind is wonderful. It 
 lights the eye with the deep glow of feeling, and paints upon 
 the countenance the delicate and almost imperceptible shades 
 of thought, and transmits the passion-spark from soul to soul, 
 awakening deep thoughts in their inmost recesses. 
 
 But still more Avonderful does man appear when we contem- 
 plate his mighty mysterious spirit, clothed in its own eternity, 
 giving the seal of immortality to the myriads of its thoughts. 
 
 In view of his power and greatness, he is wonderful. He 
 can ride proud and free upon the tempest-lashed ocean, play 
 with the forked lightning, and on the wings of thought explore 
 creation's wide domain. He is the ruler of every being on the 
 footstool of Deity, the uniting link between heaven and earth. 
 And when by sin he lost his primeval holiness, even the Migh- 
 ty One, he who weighs the mountains in a balance and the 
 hills in a scale, left his eternal throne, and clothed with mor- 
 tality, yielded himself to the monster death, that he might be- 
 come his redeemer. 
 
 A spirit created in the twinkling of an eye ! he is capable 
 of infinite improvement, and as he floats down upon the bosom 
 of eternity, his faculties will continue to expand, his feelings 
 to glow with more intensity, his moral powers approach near- 
 er perfection, and his devotions increase in purity and holiness. 
 
 Man appears wonderful when we consider the relations he 
 sustains to his God. Created in the image of his Maker, re- 
 flecting his glorious attributes, gifted with faculties capable 
 of enjoying his presence, and of becoming his heir, he re- 
 mains a living monument of the omnipotence of the eternal. 
 
13 
 
 A contemplation of man, his noble aspirations, and the sub- 
 limity of life, seems to renovate and ennoble the mind, to ex- 
 alt and almost entrance the thinker. 
 
 Yes I man is wonderful I Endowed with faculties with 
 which he can investigate the laws and explain the phenomena 
 of the world around him, and still is unable to penetrate the 
 veil of mystery in which he himself is enveloped. He is a 
 mighty and glorious emanation from God, standing between 
 two eternities with infinity around him, in majesty sublime. 
 
BY MISS CAROLINE A. WHITE, 
 
 OF ALBAin', N. Y. 
 
 THE BENEVOLENCE OF GOD NOT FULLY 
 DEMONSTRATED WITHOUT THE AID 
 OF REVELATION. 
 
 Both the visible and the invisible world conclusively prove 
 the existence of a designing and ruling power. In all v^^e see, 
 or hear — above, beneath, or around us — there breathes the 
 spirit of God. The universe is replete with evidences of his 
 existence. An eye that will see, can trace the hand of an in- 
 telligent Creator in all greeting the vision, from the flowrets' 
 beautiful petals to the brilliant stars of heaven. An ear that 
 will hear, can learn in every tone, from the whisper of zephyr 
 to the rolling thunder, that there exists a Deity. The orbs 
 which move in rich harmony through ethereal space, the ex- 
 quisite constitution of animate and inanimate creation, the 
 wondrous mechanism of our physical natxires, and the glorious 
 powers of our deathless minds, emanated from naught save 
 Divinity. 
 
 The existence of Deity once fully demonstrated, the mind 
 naturally invests him with attributes. Revelation clothes him 
 with omnipotence, omniscience, wisdom, eternity and benevo- 
 lence. Natural theology likewise recognizes in him an Eter- 
 nal Being of infinite power, knowledge and wisdom. But 
 does it recog7iize the fullness of his love ? Had revelation ne- 
 ver irradiated earth with its celestial beams, would man con- 
 clude from the natural and moral government of the Vv^orld that 
 infinite benevolence was possessed by God ? 
 
15 
 
 It is difficult for us to divest ourselves of our belief in the 
 goodness of Deity — a belief derived from the precious revelation 
 of his being and attributes given us by himself; difficult, be- 
 cause the truths contained in that revelation have been in- 
 stilled into our minds from earliest infancy. But liad it ne- 
 ver been given to us, and were naught known of the moral 
 character of the Creator save that which nature teaches, 
 would we conclude that our God is a God of love, as infinite 
 in benevolence as he is in wisdom and power ? 
 
 Let one possessed of a mighty intellect, whose powers have 
 been unfolded to their utmost extent, seek from the light of 
 nature only the fullness of divine benevolence. Let him gaze 
 on the varied and rich domain of nature. The earth is radi- 
 ant with beauty, and as the manifestations of infinite power 
 and wisdom every where greet his vision, his mind is elevat- 
 ed and expanded, and he feels that He who made this world 
 is infinite in his perfections. But while gazing on its beau- 
 ties, while its fascinations are thrilling his soul with purest 
 joy, the howl of the death-seeking hurricane is heard, roaring 
 in wild fury over land and sea, seeking for objects on which 
 to spend its wrath. How unsparing, how merciless that storm 
 breath! It lays low the noble heritage of the rich man and 
 the humble dwelling of the tenant. The dumb beast of the 
 field it spares not, and even proud man bows in the dust in 
 fear of its wild anger. Turn to the ocean and view its deso- 
 lations. An hour ago and that now dismantled ship strug- 
 gling so wildly and fiercely with the raging tempests, swept 
 the main with pride and majesty, proud queen of the crested 
 wave. She bore a rich and happy burden. Oh! many a joy- 
 ous heart was there throbbing in wild delight, in fond antici- 
 pation of their hopes' fruition ; for in a few short days a na- 
 tive land should greet them and dear friends bid them wel- 
 come. An hour I how changed their hopes, their feelings! 
 The anguish of despair is depicted on every brow. Their 
 deep, unutterable agony none may describe. Death beneath 
 the ocean seems the inevitable doom. Where now is the 
 hand that can quell the angry billows, the Voice that can say 
 to the winds and waves, " peace, be still ?" But hark ! heard 
 
16 
 
 ye that fearful crash? That vessel, laden with foreign trea^ 
 sure, with its rich burden of animated and glowing forms, 
 with wealth of affection and power of intellect that none can 
 estimate, lies buried deep in ocean's caverns. And not once 
 alone in the lapse of centuries does a proud vessel with its 
 lofty and noble treasures sink to rise no more. But oft are 
 our ears pained and our hearts thrilled with such mournful in- 
 telligence. 
 
 From earliest ages there has been that in nature which has 
 caused the frame to tremble and the spirit to bow in fear. 
 Those two proud and noble cities whose marble collonades 
 and gilded domes were wont to sparkle in the morning sun — 
 where are they now ? History records a day when they were 
 rich in splendor and magnificence, when joy and gladness had 
 spread their v/ings over their towering battlements. While 
 yet the dark cloud of their destiny brooded ominous from 
 above them^ sounds of mirth and revelry resounded — the gay 
 repartee dwelt on the lip — the eye sparkled and the heart 
 throbbed with pleasure. The power of intellect grasped the 
 truth of science, the mind of a Pliny there was engaged in 
 mighty speculations. Another morn dawned on them. Where 
 are those architectural boasts, where those pillared halls, those 
 breathing forms^ those mighty intellects? A cloud of dense, 
 sulphuric vapor is above, a mass of burning lava rolls be* 
 neath. Herculaneum and Pompeii, in the zenith of pride and 
 glory, have passed away. There was no shield to interpose 
 between them and the scorching blast of mad Vesuvius; 
 there was no voice to bid the burning stream rush in some 
 other channel ; but all, the rich, the poor^ the taught and un- 
 taught, the innocent and the guilty, are enveloped in one 
 smoking shroud. 
 
 Again the foundations of the earth are convulsed^ the 
 mio"hty granite rock is riven, a chasm yawns in rage and clo- 
 ses not till devastation and ruin have been wrought and scarce 
 a trace of existence left behind. And though that mighty 
 mind should view no more of nature's ravages, would he not 
 have learned to fear and distrust her ? Does he not find her 
 very calm, deceitful ? — death brooding not more in her wintry 
 blasts than in her summer zephyrs ? 
 
17 
 
 Let him view the irrational portion of animate creation. 
 Though from their very nature, sorrow cannot exert a power- 
 ful influence over them, yet is it not sad to think that they 
 must waste away and die ? That the dancing butterfly with 
 its ethereal pinions, the insect tribes with their brilliant hues, 
 our forest songsters, with their rich plumage must all die and 
 return to dust. But there are nobler objects yet. View the 
 being of mind and soul, the pride of creation. Man has 
 mighty sorrows to contend with. Whether considered as a 
 being of exquisite physical nature, of mighty intellectual pow- 
 ers or one with immortal soul ; yet is he ever found affliction's 
 chosen one. Gaze on our daily records. Peruse the morn- 
 ing and evening chronicles. Is there not an appalling, thrill- 
 ing list of woe delineated there? It is awful to think of the 
 desolation of spirit, the anguish of soul brought daily to our 
 ears. Oh ! they have truly said " the note of sorrow is the 
 key note of humanity. They that strike it, strike a chord in 
 every human breast." There is no situation, no rank or con- 
 dition in life exempt from ills. The marble palaces of kings 
 oft echo sighs of stern grief. In the lowl}^ walks of life, how 
 much of wretchedness is found. There is sufliering amidst 
 the virtuous poor which seraphs might mourn over. There 
 are tales in the suburbs of every town which, if robed in the 
 splendid drapery of poetic fiction, would melt the hardest heart 
 and bring the tear of sympathy from every eye. 
 
 In respect to man's physical constitution, the most skepti- 
 cal must acknowledge that there are betrayed in it noble man- 
 ifestations of divine skill and energy. The moulding and 
 connection of the osseous system alone, would convince one 
 that the impress of deity was there. But when to this there 
 is joined a knowledge of the delicate combinations of muscle 
 and tendon, the proper functions of the innumerable minute 
 capillaries of the vascular and the slender filaments of the 
 nervous systems; an acquaintance with the strangely consti- 
 tuted heart ; with the arterial vessels conducting life from its 
 great centre to the most distant and minute portion of the 
 frame; with the veins returning the purple current to be so 
 mysteriously renovated ; with the delicate convolutions and 
 
 3 
 
18 
 
 exquisite organization of the brain ; with the several Ai^^ondrdus 
 mediums of communication with the external world : and 
 with the constitution and fit use of all the organs so perfectly 
 arranged and concealed beneath a delicate drapery which 
 renders the human frame beautiful to look upon, none can or 
 dare deny that it is the handiwork of the Almighty. Yet this 
 wondrous constitution must be deranged and broken down. 
 This beautiful temple is of perishable nature and must decay 
 and fall low unto the dust. None can live three score and 
 ten, without the sharp pain darting through the seat of life — 
 languor and disease creeping over the frame ; weakening its 
 energies and wasting its glories. Oft in the early dawn of 
 life, the seeds of disease are implanted in the system, and 
 though long years may be appointed for existence, they will 
 be those of distress and pain. Oft must man in the pride and 
 glory of his years, while fame and v^realth are wreathing their 
 bright laurels around him, desert them all for the chamber of 
 sickness, the bed of death. Disease now with rude hand, in 
 a moment will prostrate the noble form, and again it will creep 
 over it with consumption's stealthy pace, now lulling fear and 
 awakening hope, then appalling the heart with its deep rava- 
 ges. There are times when pestilence walks abroad, not 
 alone as a midnight marauder, but even in the bright sun- 
 shine ; whole provinces are made desolate, and the air far and 
 near is tainted with its pestiferous influence. Every hour dis- 
 ease greets us, the air we breathe wafts onward the seed of 
 death, every thing imbibed, though it be for nourishment, 
 contributes to decay — decay of that frame so beautifully and 
 skilfully formed by the hand of Deity. 
 
 Contemplate man's intellectual nature. There are noble 
 minds on earth ; minds to whom is given the mysterious and 
 godlike gift of genius. And have they not received what is 
 best fitted to make happy an intellectual being ? Does not 
 happiness in brightest radiance bend over those favored ones? 
 Ah no ! misfortune is the lot of genius. Its sweetest strains 
 are oft penned in utter desolation of spirit, and its brightest 
 flashes extinguished by tears of anguish. Sorrow has ever 
 lurked beneath that brilliant spell, and we cannot but acknow- 
 
19 
 
 ledge it " a bright but fatal gift." There are minds on earth 
 so delicately woven, so sweetly sensitive, as to seem ethereal 
 in their nature. It is delightful to commune with them, for 
 we seem as in the company of pure spirits. But sad is their 
 lot in this world of ours. Few will sympathize with and ap- 
 preciate their natures. Fit objects for angels' tears, they live 
 in solitude of hope, in sadness and in woe. There are hearts 
 crowded with rich aftection, breathing rare sweetness around. 
 But oft do they wither and die under contumely and scorn. 
 Life is made up of confidence. It is the sole reliance of an 
 earthly being. But oft, when the whole faith has been re- 
 posed in one alone, when the heart has poured forth its rich 
 deep affection upon one loved object, the faith has been be- 
 trayed and the heart left blighted and desolate. 
 
 His Creator has bestowed on man a mind whose mighty 
 energies, whose powerful capacities, no mortal can estimate, 
 one thirsting for knowledge, desiring full development of fac- 
 ulty, never satiated with its attainments ; a mind whose won- 
 ders and mysteries Deity alone may reveal. Now when we 
 contemplate one fit to soar beyond the clouds, one to whom 
 the abstruse philosophers of earth are plain as sunlight, con- 
 sumed by the wild flame of insanity ; the eye, wont to sparkle 
 with intelligence, dilating to its utmost extent in the strange 
 glare of madness, the artifices of idiocy entirely usurping the 
 sway of reason, are not our souls thrilled Avith horror ? 
 
 It is not once, nor thrice alone in memory of man that the 
 maniac's wild and startling scream has rent the air, but so 
 frequent is the wreck of mind, that every country, every pro- 
 vince, has its asylum for the poor lunatic. 
 
 Let every man contemplate, in the darkness of nature, a 
 single situation in his own life; let him think of his own death 
 scene. Knowing that he is a moral agent, with an immortal 
 soul, I would ask him if, in the dark creed of nature, there is 
 aught can reconcile benevolence with death, when the bonds 
 that have held him in sweet communion Avith those he loves 
 are to be rent asunder, when the cold dew is gathering on his 
 brow, his eyes becoming glazed and fixed, his limbs refusing 
 former offices, his pulse throbbing yet slower, and a strange 
 
20 
 
 feeling at his heart telling him life is ebbing — where then 
 shall he look for hope? He has the full consciousness of an 
 immortal soul, but where shall that soul spend its immor- 
 tality ? 
 
 The mind may conceive of a heaven in which it may be 
 perfectly and eternally happy. But is there proof of this suf- 
 ficient for a dying man ? sufficient to satisfy the soul on its 
 flight from earth? With a revelation, reasoning from analo- 
 gy, we may find that in " the course of nature" which will 
 satisfy the mind concerning a future state. But without it, 
 where shall we find certain evidences that our hereafter will 
 be suited to intellectual beings ? While glowing with life and 
 animation, probable evidences may suffice ; but when death 
 broods on our pillow, the mind is not contented with mere 
 speculation. We must, while yet we hnow it cannot be so, 
 hope that we shall sink into nothingness, or own we go, we 
 know not where. If benevolence had watched over us in life, 
 yet if it had not revealed the certainty of a heaven of bliss, 
 the mind, far from resting on probabilities, would be harassed 
 and agitated beyond all conception, and in maniac madness 
 would rush — where ? where ? Ask ye of nature where ? She 
 is silent — she knows not. But light is brightest in dark- 
 ness. In the midst of the mind's confusion and agony, let 
 revelation's glorious aid be given to man ; let earth be encir- 
 cled with its halo of heavenly light ; vanished, vanished fore- 
 ver are all doubts, all misgivings, as to the benevolence of 
 Deity. 
 
 Revelation distinctly, solemnly, gloriously asserts, " God is 
 Love." Love blooming in brightest hour and fading not in 
 that of desolation — love watching over us in life, standing by 
 us in death, pointing to heaven's golden portals, unclosing 
 them that we may enter and dwell with pure spirit forever. 
 Love that has " Length without end, breadth without limit," 
 higher than heaven, deeper than hell. Love that formed prim- 
 eval man in purity and holiness — love that placed him where 
 all conduced to happiness — love that when man had fallen 
 from the elevated position originally assigned him, could send 
 his only son as Mediator — send him from the loftiest seat in 
 
21 
 
 heaven to the lowest on earth, from the companionship of se- 
 raphims to that of degraded, erring mortals; love that when 
 man had censured, reviled, and persecuted the holy Jesus, 
 even unto death, and the shameful death of the cross, far from 
 being extinguished, was ready in that hour, when but a sin- 
 gle evidence of penitence was given, to send from heaven a 
 holy influence upon man, that would prepare him to spend 
 with God a blessed eternity. Let man learn the fullness of 
 His love from revelation — then where was darkness, will be 
 light; where sorrow, joy; when, was utter uncertainty as to 
 a hereafter, will be the blessed assurance of an immortality in 
 the divine presence. Oh it is a holy, blessed light, the light 
 of revelation. 
 
 Though there is that in nature which would confound the 
 wisest philosophers, though there is that incomprehensibility 
 in death which man can never fathom ; yet they disturb us 
 not ; they weary not our souls, for we know and feel that our 
 God is infinite in goodness, though his ways are oft inscruta- 
 ble. How many a sinner has been impeded in his mad ca- 
 reer by the agonizing knowledge that one in the same stages 
 of crime has been swallowed up by the angry billows, without 
 a moment of reflection. What though our destiny be dark, 
 what though sorrow has ever saddened our hearts, it is un- 
 grateful for us to murmur — this is but our short probation, 
 but the traveller's resting place in view of his father's man- 
 sion. 
 
 Revelation whispers, too, that it is good to be afliicted. God 
 has said " blessed are they that mourn." " Affliction is no 
 child of earth," but she has been sent from heaven to purify 
 our gross natures. How oft is genius led to bow at the shrine 
 of the Deity, and its powers rendered still more exalted by the 
 suffering which seems its necessary attendant. How oft does 
 the rudeness of earth render the sensitive mind still more ethe- 
 real and fit it for heaven. How infinitely more do we prize 
 our intellectual faculties and endeavor to exert them in that 
 befitting their nobility, after the contemplation of their awful 
 wreck. How does all sorrow soften the asperities of our na- 
 ture, and all mortality lead us to a preparation for our own 
 
22 
 
 departure. Oli ! affliction is ever sent in mercy ; far from be- 
 ing the enemy of our moral nature, she is its noblest, truest 
 friend ; she is sent to purify our souls, to make them fit inha- 
 bitants for the heavenly kingdom. 
 
 God, as an Eternal Being breathing his power, presence 
 and glory throughout the universe, inspires awe and rever- 
 ence, but a God infinite in benevolence, awakens the soul's 
 richest affections and draws it nearer to its primeval source. 
 A benevolent man affords a theme worthy of noblest intellect; 
 but a benevolent God demands 
 
 " An angel's lyre, 
 
 Language of light and sentiment of fire." 
 
BY MISS SARAH M. MEIGS, 
 
 OF ALBANY, K. Y. 
 
 JOURNEYINGS OF THE WIND. 
 
 Spirit of the wind ! thou wondrous being of the upper world ! 
 whose presence is every where felt, yet whom we may not 
 see ! impart to me thy secrets, tell what thou art ? — whence 
 thou earnest ?— thy dwelling place ? — thine office ? — and where 
 have been thy journeyings ? And the gentle zephyr answer- 
 ed, " Mortal, it is not thine to knoAv all things thou hast asked 
 of me, but this I may reveal. I am the messenger of Heaven, 
 to distribute among men both good and evil, blessing and 
 curse. I roam through every clime, on wing swifter than the 
 soaring eagle— now on the summit of a lofty mountain, and 
 now in the depths of a low valley. My dwelling place is the 
 vast globe, the north and south, the sea and land. My age is 
 that of Time. When the first blissful pair were placed in 
 Paradise, I was in being. When the angels, as messengers 
 of love, came to visit the favored ones, I bore them upon my 
 wings as in a chariot. I sometimes fanned the cheek of Eve, 
 and murmured through the shady groves, vieing with the songs 
 of the sweet warblers, and producing music pleasant to her 
 ear. And although man fell from his pure innocence, yet I 
 did not forsake him ; when he returned from his labor, I 
 sought him out, and cooled his burning brow, and gently fan- 
 ned him in his rest. 
 
 I have been sent by the Father of all good on innumerable 
 errands of love. 
 
 When all around is still, I bear to the mariner sweet music 
 from the far off coast. I waft to him the fragrance of the dis* 
 
24 
 
 tant shore, and it recalls to him thoughts of his home, of the 
 loved and absent. 
 
 When the noon-day sun has been pouring his scorching rays 
 upon the earth, till herb and beast and man seem ready to 
 droop and die, then I come with my invigorating breath, and 
 impart to them new life and energy. 
 
 I visit the inhabitant of the sunny South. I spread my 
 wings to refresh him* I gather the aroma from the orange 
 groves, and gently waft it onward till the whole air is filled 
 with fragrance. 
 
 I visit the bed-side of the dying. I soothe his sufferings ; 
 cool his fever-heated brow, and bear to him the voices of 
 sainted friends, who call him from this scene of sorrow and of 
 care ; or the songs of the bright angels, in praise of their 
 Eedeemer ; and, as the sweet tones fall upon his ear, his coun- 
 tenance is irradiated with the heavenly joy ; he gently mur- 
 murs, I come — I come j and his spirit flies to the realms of 
 bliss. But I yet hover around his pillow — kiss his cold lips — 
 gently stir his moistened locks, and whisper to the weeping 
 group sweet consolation. They listen with deep attention, and 
 imagine the spirit of the departed speaks to them. And when 
 the dead is placed in his narrow house, when he is committed 
 to the tomb, I linger o^er his resting-place, and amid the dark 
 foliage of the cypress and the willow, I sadly chant his dirge. 
 
 I guide the proud ship through the mighty waters, gently 
 propelling it onwards. I fill its white sails and direct it to the 
 desired haven. 
 
 The Being whom I serve is not only a God of mercy and of 
 love, but he is a just and an avenging God. Those who obey 
 his precepts and trust in his love, live in the light of his smiles. 
 Upon the disobedient and sinful, his vials of fierce wrath are 
 poured out. It is given to me to dispense his bounties, but I 
 too must be the minister of his vengeance. 
 
 I pass a busy city,- — its inhabitants, unconscious of lurking 
 danger, are pursuing their various occupations — when all un- 
 warning I come upon them in my strength. I overthrow their 
 proud habitations, and their works of art ; they seek for safety 
 in flight, but wherever they direct their steps destruction fol- 
 
26 
 
 lows ; by land there is no escape, and none by sea. They 
 tremble and acknowledge I am God's messenger of wrath. 
 
 I look upon the gallant ship and her brave crew, and she is 
 tossed upon the midnight wave. I tear her sails, lay low her 
 strong mast, and make the sailors mad with fear. Some hold 
 fierce revels to forget the presence of Death, which rides upon 
 the black waves — others sit in mute despair, or in frenzy, invoke 
 the assistance of insulted heaven. 
 
 In the dreary desert, the wearied traveller hastens to the 
 cooling stream. I breathe upon him, and he smiles a kindly 
 welcome. I redouble my power — I gather the dry sands of 
 the desert and raise them like the waves of the ocean — I drive 
 the deadly simoom upon him, he bends low, and hopes to es- 
 cape — vain hope ! — the scourge of the desert makes him his 
 prey. 
 
 I am the instrument of his vengeance when He sendeth the 
 pestilence abroad. I respect neither age nor station. The 
 infirm and the beautiful alike wither at my presence. I enter 
 the habitations of royalty — I poison the goblet, and mingle 
 deadly odors with the costly incense. I visit the lowly hovel, 
 and the peasant gasps and dies. They, who seek in the caves 
 of the earth to elude my vigilance, are forced to bow low be- 
 fore me. In the court, and in the camp, all pass away. I 
 cease not my work till I have accomplished the purpose of 
 Him whose minister I am. 
 
 My whole existence is devoted to my Maker. I obey, and 
 question not, — and oh ! that proud man might learn — 
 
 " His holy counsel to fulfil, 
 To suffer all his righteous will, 
 And to the end endure." 
 
BY MISS RACHAEL RAMSAY, 
 
 OF ALBANY, N. Y. 
 
 THE FEELINGS OF THE ORPHAN. 
 
 No sound breaks the silence of the hour of death ; no mur- 
 muring word escapes the lips of her who soon must feel a mo- 
 ther's loss. But her countenance bespeaks that which words 
 cannot express — it discloses the anguish of the heart though 
 she would fain conceal it. The tender vine which had clasp- 
 ed its tendrils each day with renewed force around the moth- 
 er tree, was now separated from it ; for death's withering hand 
 touched the parent stem and it perished, leaving the vine to 
 bear the rude storm alone. No friendly footstep is heard : no 
 kindly hand leads her from the scene of woe ; no soothing 
 voice administers consolation. In the ignorance of her youth- 
 ful heart she watches with increased anxiety for that smile and 
 embrace which she always enjoyed; for hope is an impulse 
 which the youthful heart ever cherishes. She is not aware 
 that the loved form before her is but a mass of lifeless clay, 
 the spirit of which God has claimed. She gazes upon it with 
 mingled fear and hope. But ah ! she will never again hear 
 from those lips their wonted instructions; never again will she 
 frolic in childish glee by the side of her indulgent parent and 
 pour into her ear the overflowings of her innocent heart. She 
 entreats for one consoling word to sooth her swelling heart and 
 quell its rising fears. But in vain. As she approaches the 
 bedside, dread forebodings seize her mind and she shrinks 
 from the freezing touch of a mother's corpse. Her eyes are 
 opened to the truth. She is now aware that she is alone and 
 unprotected. A dark scene of misery is unfolded to her in 
 
27 
 
 the future. She endeavors by childish amusements to dispel 
 her sad feelings ; each little treasure she unfolds, but to no 
 purpose, for they only remind her of her bereavement. Not 
 even the soft tones of brotherly affection can afford her conso- 
 lation. She thinks but of the past, of her mother's dying pray- 
 er, of her parting blessing, and her last fond look. To the 
 grave she hastens and entreats into its bosom to be admitted, 
 to lie down in peace beside the cold form of her mother. And 
 in her grief she vows that neither voice nor smile, however 
 sweet, shall tempt her to leave the spot where all that was 
 dear to her lies buried. But she finds, though in the deepest 
 misery, God is still mindful of his creatures, for the messenger 
 of love is nigh, whose outstretched arm offers relief, and whose 
 cheering voice draws her from her lonely seat. And while 
 she relates each little woe with plaintive voice to her deliverer, 
 her tears are mingled with those of the messenger of love. 
 As she listens to his admonitions, a gleam of hope illumines 
 her pale countenance, and she inwardly exclaims " God has in- 
 deed taken me up." And now bright prospects open before 
 her : gratitude claims and possesses a prominent seat in her 
 heart. Friends lend an influence to promote her happiness 
 and will ever be loved and warmly cherished by her : yet with 
 the remembrance of those, a lovely image seems to hover 
 about her and she loves to dwell upon that form, though long 
 unseen, for filial love is that which God has planted in each 
 heart and commands us faithfully to preserve. Wherever she 
 goes her mother seems to watch over her, and she delights in 
 the thought, that, though unseen she is still present. And 
 may not that which causes even the blind to rejoice, and de- 
 prives death of its cruel sting, prove of infinite value to the 
 Orphan ? It may. The rugged path of misfortune is over- 
 looked, and she thinks only of the bright prospect which reli- 
 gion has opened to her. Happy is she who, though a prey to 
 sorrow, looks to religion for support !