in ruining nations as statesmen are in advancing them, are men of mechanical minds. In politics, perhaps, more practical injury has resulted from the dominion of formal dunces, than in any other department of human affairs-politics being the great field of action for all speculators in public nonsense, for all men whose incompetency to handle things would be quickly discovered in any other profession. But a great statesman, no less than a great poet, discerns the life of things in virtue of having himself a live mind, and, not content with observing men and events, divines events in their principles, and thus reads the future. When he proposes a scheme of legislation, all its results exist in his mind as possibilities, and if an effect is produced not calculated in the conception, he is so far to be accounted a blunderer, not a statesman. Perhaps of all the statesmen that ever lived, Edmund Burke had this power of reading events in principles in the greatest perfection; and certainly there are few English poets who can be said to equal him in impassioned imagination. This imagination was not, as is commonly asserted, a companion and illustrator of his understanding, appending pretty images to strong arguments, but it included understanding in itself, and was both impetus and insight to his grandly comprehensive and grandly energetic mind. Fox, Pitt, and all the politicians of his time, were, in comparison with him, men of mechanical intellects, constantly misconceiving events; mere experimentors, surprised at results which they should have predicted. There is something mortifying in the reflection that, in free countries, the people have not yet arrived at the truth, that great criminality as well as great impudence are involved in the exercise of political power without political capacity. A politician in high station, without insight and foresight, and thus blind in both eyes, is an impostor of the worst kind, and should be dealt with as such.

In art and literature the doctrine of vital powers lies at the base of all criticism which is not mere gibberish. It is now commonly understood that the creative precedes the critical; that critical laws were originally generalized from poetic works; and that a poem is to be judged by the living law or central idea by which it is organized, which law or idea is as the acorn to the oak, and determines the form of the poem. The power and reach of the poet's mind is measured by his conception of organic ideas, of ideas which, when once grasped, are principles whence poems necessarily grow, and are eventually realized in works. The universality of Shakspeare is but a power of vital conception, not limited to one or two ideas, but ranging victoriously over the world of ideas. These celestial seeds, once planted in a poetic nature, germinate and grow into forms of individual being, whose loveliness and power shame our actual men and actual society by a revelation of the real and the permanent. Chaucer, Shakspeare, Spenser, Milton, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, in virtue of their power to realize and localize the ideal, give us "poor humans" a kind of spiritual world on earth.

The schoolmasters of letters, those gentlemen who frame laws of taste, and manufacture cultivated men, commonly display a notable oversight instead of insight of the distinction between vital and mechanical minds, between authors who impart power and authors who impart information. They judge the value of a book by its external form instead of internal substance, and altogether overlook the only important office of reading and study, which plainly is the accelleration of our faculties through an increase of mind. Mind is increased by receiving the mental life of a book, and assimilating it with our own nature, not by hoarding up information in the memory. Books thus read enrich and enlarge the mind, stimulating, inflaming, concentrating its activity; and though without this reception of external life a man may be odd, he cannot be original. The greatest genius is he who consumes the most knowledge, and converts it into mind. But a mechanical intellect merely attaches the husks of things to his memory, and eats nothing. It is for this reason that heavy heads, laden with unfertilizing opinions and dead facts which never pass down into the vitalities of their being, are such terrific bores. Considering literature not as food but as luggage, they cram their brains to starve their intelligence--and wo to the youth whom they pretend to instruct and inform! A true teacher should penetrate to whatever is vital in his pupil, and develop that by the light and heat of his own intelligence-like the inspiring master described by Barry Cornwall's enthusiast:

He was like the sun, giving me light;
Pouring into the caves of my young brain
Knowledge from his bright fountains.

A man who reads live books keeps himself alive, has a constant sense of what life means and what mind is. In reading Milton, a power is communicated to us, which, for the time, gives us the feeling of a capacity for doing any thing, from writing a Hamlet to whipping Tom Hyer. "My sir," said the artist who had been devouring Chapman's Homer, "when I went into the street, after reading that book, men seemed to be ten feet high." This exaltation of intelligence is simply a movement of our consciousness from the mechanical to the vital state, and to those whose common existence is in commonplaces such an exaltation occasions a shock of surprise akin to fear.

In an art very closely connected with one of the highest forms of literature, the art of acting, we have another illustration of the fundamental antithesis, in processes and in results, between vitality and mechanism. Few, even among noted performers, have minds to conceive the characters they play; and it consequently is a rare thing to see a character really embodied and ensouled on the stage. The usual method is to give it piece by piece, and part by part, and the impression left on the audience is not the idea of a person, but an aggregation of personal peculiarities. Mr. Macready, for instance, has voice, action, understanding, grace of manner, felicity in points: but each is mechanical. His mind is hard and unfusible, never melts and runs into the mould

WHEN Persia's sceptre trembled in a hand
Wilted by harem-heats, and all the land

Was hovered over by those vulture ills
That snuff decaying empire from afar,
Then, with a nature balanced as a star,
Dara arose, a shepherd of the hills.

He, who had governed fleecy subjects well,
Made his own village, by the self-same spell,

Secure and peaceful as a guarded fold,

Till, gathering strength by slow and wise degrees, Under his sway, to neighbor villages

Order returned, and faith and justice old.

Now when it fortuned that a king more wise
Endued the realm with brain and hands and eyes,
He sought on every side men brave and just,
And, having heard the mountain-shepherd's praise,
How he renewed the mould of elder days,
To Dara gave a satrapy in trust.

So Dara shepherded a province wide,
Nor in his viceroy's sceptre took more pride
Than in his crook before; but Envy finds
More soil in cities than on mountains bare,
And the frank sun of spirits clear and rare
Breeds poisonous fogs in low and marish minds.

Soon it was whispered at the royal ear
That, though wise Dara's province, year by year,
Like a great spunge, drew wealth and plenty up,
Yet, when he squeezed it at the king's behest,
Some golden drops, more rich than all the rest,
Went to the filling of his private cup.

For proof, they said that whereso'er he went
A chest, beneath whose weight the camel bent,
Went guarded, and no other eye had seen
What was therein, save only Dara's own,
Yet, when 't was opened, all his tent was known
To glow and lighten with heapt jewels' sheen.
The king set forth for Dara's province straight,
Where, as was fit, outside his city's gate

The viceroy met him with a stately train; And there, with archers circled, close at hand, A camel with the chest was seen to stand; The king grew red, for thus the guilt was plain. "Open me now, ," he cried, "yon treasure-chest!" "T was done, and only a worn shepherd's vest Was found within; some blushed and hung the head, Not Dara; open as the sky's blue roof

He stood, and " O, my lord, behold the proof
That I was worthy of my trust!" he said.

In a green sheltered nook, where a mountain
Stood guarding the peace-haunted ground,
Lived a maiden whose smile was the sunlight
That gladdened the hill-sides around.
Her voice seemed a musical echo,
Whose notes wandered down from above,
And wherever she walked in her beauty
Sprang blossoms of joy and of love.

As she stood at her door in the morning,
The hunter below, riding by,
Cried out to his comrades, "we 're early!
For look, there's a star in the sky!",
At the chapel, when good men were praying
That angels of God would appear,
Every heart turned to her, lowly kneeling,
And felt that an angel was near.

Thus radiant and pure in her presence,
A blessing she moved, day by day,
Till a proud lord beheld her, and loved her,
And lured her forever away.

He bore this bright bird of the mountain,
Watched over and shielded the best,
From the home of her youth and her kindred,
Away to his own haughty nest.

And lo! the grim idols in waiting
Beset her for worship, and won;
And the light of her beautiful childhood
Went down like the swift-fading sun.
And sudden as rises the black cloud,
When tempests the thunder-gods start,
Strange wishes encircled her bosom,
And Pride swept the halls of her heart.
And once, when o'ermastered by anger,
Her golden-haired boy sought her side,
In her fury she smote down her first born,
And he fell like a lily and died.

There were tears, burning tears, to recall him,
And anguish that scorches the brain,
But the harp-strings of life never answered
The touch that would tune them again!

She sleeps in a dark mausoleum,

And ages have rolled o'er her head,
But her name is remembered in Tyrol
As when she was laid with the dead.
And to-day, as the traveler sits weary,
And drinks from the rude fountain-bowl,
They tell the sad story, and whisper
The warning that speaks to your soul.

CHAPTER I.

Fortune, the great commandress of the world,
Hath divers ways to enrich her followers:
To some, she honor gives without deserving;
To other some, deserving without honor;
Some wit-some wealth-and some wit without wealth;
Some, wealth without wit-some, nor wit nor wealth.
CHAPMAN.

"Rouse up, rouse up, my hearty! Bear a hand and be lively for that little devil-skin abaft, has been hailing for you this five minutes."

Thus spoke, with a rough voice, but in a kind tone, a tall and powerfully built sailor, as he descended the forecastle-ladder, to a boy of some ten years of age, who, lying stretched upon his back on a messchest, was fast asleep. Loud as were the tones of the speaker, they made no impression upon the boy. Wrapped in the deep, sweet slumber of childhood, his body fatigued, his conscience clear, and his mind at ease, he was enjoying one of those refreshing rests that are only permitted to the young and contentedthe sleep that manhood longs after but seldom experiences.

A beautiful picture would that forecastle and its inmates have made, could they have been transferred to canvas. The boy, a noble one, as he reposed with closed eye-lids and upturned face, over which bright smiles were flitting-the reflection of pleasant, hopeful dreams-seemed an embodiment of intelligence and innocence; notwithstanding the coarse canvas trowsers and striped cotton-shirt which formed his only attire. The man, with his muscular and strongly-knit figure, his bronzed cheeks, huge whiskers, brightly gleaming eyes and determined expression of countenance, was the personification of bodily strength, physical perfection and perfect self-reliance. The one looked as if he were a spirit from a higher sphere, who had by chance become an inmate of that dark, confined, triangular-shaped and murky apartment; and appeared all out of place amidst its mess-chests, bedding, and other nautical dunnage, and its atmosphere reeking with the odors of bilge-water, tar, and lamp-smoke. The other was in keeping with the surrounding objects; his bright red flannel shirt, his horny hands, his very attitude showed him one to ease and comfort unaccustomed, whose only home was a forecastle, his abiding-place the heaving ocean.

Wearied with awaiting the result of his verbal summons, the seaman reached down to awaken his companion with a shake; and as he did, a beam of affection so softened the expression of his counte

nance, and lent so much tenderness to his eye, that with all his roughness and uncouthness, the weatherbeaten tar became really handsome; for, than love, there is no more certain beautifier. Though undisturbed by noise, no sooner was the sailor-boy touched, than, true to the instinct of his calling, he sprung from his resting-place, as wide awake, and with his faculties as much about him, as if he had always been to sleep a stranger-and exclaimed,

"Is it eight bells already, Frank? I thought I had just closed my peepers."

"Just closed your peepers, my little lark! I began to think your eye-lids were battened down, it seemed such a hard pull for you to heave them up. You havn't had much of a snooze though, for it 's only four bells; but that young scaramouch astern wants you to take him in tow. So you had better up-anchor and make sail, Tom, for the cabin, or the she-commodore will be sending the boatswain after you with the colt."*

Scarcely waiting to hear the completion of the sentence, the lad hurried up the ladder to the deck, and in a few seconds was at the door of the cabin.

Standing just inside the entrance, a drizzling rain preventing him from coming further, stood the youth to whom Frank had referred, by the not very flattering appellations of devil-skin and scaramouch. There was but little difference in the age of the two boys. Not the slightest resemblance or similarity, however, existed between them in any other respect. The sailor-boy was large for his years-with a figure that gave promise of symmetry, grace, and an early maturity; his head was in keeping with his body-admirably developed, well balanced, and covered with a profusion of rich, dark brown hair; his forehead, broad and intellectual, lent additional beauty to his full, deep-blue eyes; and with his ruddy cheeks, giving evidence of vigorous health, he was just such a boy as a prince might desire his only son and heir to be.

The captain's son was slight and rather undersized, with a sickly look, produced apparently more by improper indulgences than natural infirmity; sparkling black eyes, black hair, and regular features, added to a well-shaped head and fine brow, would have rendered him good-looking in spite of his sallow complexion, had it not been for a peevish, discontented and rather malignant expression, that was habitual to him.

The physique of the the lads did not differ more

COLT.-A rope with a knot on the end. Used as an instrument of punishment in place of the cat-o'-nine-tails.

than their dress. The one was clothed in a suit of the most costly broadcloth, elegantly made, with boots upon his feet, and a gold chain around his neck to support the gold watch in his pocket. The other, bare-footed, bare-necked, jacketless, was under no obligations to the tailor for adding to the gentility of his appearance. Yet any person, even a blind man, could he have heard their voices, would at once have acknowledged that the roughest clad bore indellibly impressed upon him the insignia of nature's nobility.

No sooner did the captain's son see the boy of the forecastle, than he addressed him in a tone and style that harmonized with the sneering expression of his face:

"So, you good-for-nothing, lazy fellow, you've made me stand here bawling for you this half hour. What's the reason you did not come when I first called?"

Why, Master Charles, I would not have kept you waiting if I had known you wanted me; but I was asleep in the forecastle, sir. Frank Adams woke me up-and I 've come as quick as I could."

"Asleep this time in the afternoon! Why don't you sleep at night? I never sleep in the afternoons. But you had better not make me stand and wait so long for you another time, or I'll tell my mamma, and she 'll get father to whip you."

At this threat a bright flush overspread the face and neck of the sailor-boy, and for an instant his eye assumed a fierce expression that was unusual to it; but suppressing his feelings, he replied in his accustomed tone,

"I was up all night, Master Charles, helping to reef top-sails, and lending a hand to get up the new fore-sail in place of the old one that was blown out of the bolt-ropes in the mid-watch. This morning I could not sleep, for you know I was playing with you until mess-time."

"Well, Tom, come into the cabin and let's play, and I wont say any thing about it this time," said Charles, as he walked in, followed by his companion.

What a difference there was between the apartment in which the lads now were, and the one which Tom had left but a few moments before. It was the difference between wealth and poverty.

The vessel, on board of which our scene is laid, was a new and magnificently-finished barque of seven hundred and fifty tons, named the Josephine. The craft had been built to order, and was owned and commanded by Lewis Barney Andrews-a gentleman of education and extensive fortune, who had been for many years an officer in the United States navy. Getting married, however, and his wife's objecting to the long cruises he was obliged to take in the service, whilst she was compelled to remain at home, he effected a compromise between his better half's desire that he should relinquish his profession, and his own disinclination to give up going to sea entirely, by resigning his commission in the navy, and purchasing a ship for himself. The Josephine belonged to Baltimore-of which city

Captain A. was a native, and was bound to the East Indies. She was freighted with a valuable cargo, which also belonged to the captain, and had on board besides the captain, his wife, son and servant-girl, a crew consisting of two mates, and a boatswain, fourteen seamen, a cook, steward, and one boy.

Her cabin-a poop one-was fitted up in the most luxurious style. Every thing that the skill of the upholsterer and the art of the painter, aided by the taste and experience of the captain, could do to make it elegant, beautiful and comfortable, had been done. Extending nearly to the main-mast the distance from the cabin-door to the transom was full fifty feet. This space was divided into two apartments of unequal size, one of twenty, the other thirty feet, by a sliding bulkhead of highly polished rosewood and superbly-stained glass.

The after-cabin was fitted up as a sleeping-room, with two mahogany bedsteads and all the appurtenances found in the chambers of the wealthy on shore. The forward-cabin was used as a sitting and eating-room. On the floor was a carpet, of whose fabric the looms of Persia might be proud-so rich, so thick, so magnificent was it, and deep-cushioned ottomans, lounges and rocking-chairs were scattered along the sides and were placed in the corners of the apartment.

Not far from the door, reclining on a lounge, with a book in her hand, was the wife of the captain, and the mother of Master Charles. She was a handsome woman, but one who had ever permitted her fancies and her feelings to be the guides of her actions. Consequently her heart, which by nature was a kind one, was often severely wrung by the pangs of remorse, caused by the recollection of deeds committed from impulse, which her pride would not permit her to apologize or atone for, even after she was convinced of her error.

As the two boys entered the cabin she looked at them, but without making any remark, continued the perusal of her book, whilst they proceeded to the after-cabin, and getting behind the bulkhead were out of her sight. For some fifteen minutes the stillness of the cabin was undisturbed; but then, the mother's attention was attracted by the loud, angry tones of her son's voice, abusing apparently his playfellow. Hardly had she commenced listening, to ascertain what was the matter, ere the sound of a blow, followed by a shriek, and the fall of something heavy upon the floor, reached her ear. Alarmed, she rushed into the after-cabin, and there, upon the floor, his face covered with blood, she saw the idol of her heart, the one absorbing object of her affection, her only son, and standing over him, with flashing eyes, swelling chest, and clenched fists, the sailor-boy.

So strong was the struggle between the emotions of love and revenge-a desire to assist her child, a disposition to punish his antagonist-that the mother for a moment stood as if paralyzed. Love, however, assumed the mastery; and raising her son and pressing him to her bosom, she asked in most tender tones, "Where he was hurt?"

"I ain't hurt, only my nose is bleeding because