SOLITUDE.

FEAR, and a disgust with the world, often seek solitude. The most diverse, even the most contrary causes, inspire the want of it; but the expectation which leads to it, is not always satisfied. The timid seek in it, a refuge against dangers they cannot face; the tender and delicate, against the arrows that wound them; those deceived by cruel misunderstandings, try to forget society; inexperience shuts itself up as in a haven from storms; grief buries itself as in a tomb; melancholy imagination hopes to find solace or liberty: the wicked and the innocent alike seek solitude; the former to expiate their crimes, when tormented by remorse-the latter to taste more freely celestial and pure happiness. In consequence of the storms caused by violent passions, dejection, prudence, the reaction of violent will, bring to solitary life characters which seem least fitted for it. Not only ambition and vanity, when disappointed, are driven into solitude, egotistical misanthropy, all unsocial humors, demand less what it can give than mere isolation. They are dragged into it, perhaps, to be punished. Wisdom also sighs after solitude, seeking retreat as the sanctuary of meditation, and finding in it the calmness and independence necessary to regulate the moral faculties. Lofty souls love retirement, because all their elevated thoughts and sentiments may be developed there, and they can better enjoy themselves.

But the influence which solitude exercices, depends upon the motives which lead to it, the dispositions which are carried into it, and the manner in which we use it.

Feebleness, in seeking solitude, destroys its resources, by losing every opportunity of exercising courage. We often find within, more terrible enemies than those without, with less means to escape or combat them. These enemies still pursue their victim, and, taking him captive, fall upon him. We hope for repose, but fall into exhaustion, or wander in delirium. We hope for consolation, but we have deprived ourselves of activity and of beneficence, the truest consolations; we flatter ourselves that we shall gather instruction, but we see ourselves plunged into darkness, and soon the darkness is peopled with a thousand phantoms. Solitude is useful only to him, who has a sincere desire of becoming better: miserable is he, who imprisons himself with his pas sions, without being resolved to subdue them.

But it is not sufficient to enter retirement, even with the right disposition of soul; it is necessary to be provided with aliment for the mind and the heart; otherwise we run the risk of finding ourselves in a desert, where we shall perish with inanition. In order to draw from retirement the advantages which it promises, the moral faculties must have acquired a certain degree of energy. Otherwise we shall soon be fatigued with the monotony of the objects and continuity of situation, and we shall fall into lethargy. We must be mild and amiable, in order to make the best use of solitude. We must be serene, we must be to ourselves an easy host, not a ferocious jailer. We must have a constant and wellordered activity and a wise self-distrust, in order to prevent illusions, idle speculations, blind presumption, and pride. Without rules, limitations, and vigilance, the liberty of solitude will become a peril; dogmatism and the exaggeration of a false enthusiasm will germinate; the virtues will be mixed with the passions, and imbibe their vehemence. We shall grow excessively severe, both towards others and ourselves; we shall pursue a chimerical perfection, and at the same time unconsciously become accomplices of enterprizes the most fatal to mankind: thus solitude may become either a severe school, in which the moral education is finished, or an abyss, in which happiness, reason and virtue are swallowed up. There have not only sprung from it the greatest discoveries of genius and the most beneficent displays of eminent character, but it has nourished also those terrible passions whose excesses have astonished mankind.*

Solitude is therefore not only useful but difficult; it requires proper preparation and precautions; and, although indispensable, is not a complete and sufficient education. Doubtless it alone can give to the love of excellence all its energy, to reflection all the profoundness of which our nature is capable; to the internal virtues relating to self-communion, the

* Estimable philosophers have conceived the idea of employing absolute retreat as a means of correction for great criminals, and of employing it also as a means of chastisement. This is a noble thought-to make the punishment the means of correcting crime. In the application of this means, however, we should consider to what characters this regimen is applied, and modify the discipline according to circumstances. We should take care that absolute solicitude do not become a fatal idleness, and that there be a proper proportion of bodily labor, and a course of reading favorable to salutary reflections.

highest degree of development; to self-government all the authority which it may receive from contemplation and selfknowledge; and to the heroism of virtue its most substantial aliment. But protracted solitude will deprive us of the aids of experience, of virtuous activity, and of the useful influence which self-government draws from the shock of external obstacles. We shall arrive more promptly and easily to a partial perfection, very well, doubtless, for those whose duties lie in a confined sphere; but we shall not so well attain to that general perfection, which, embracing all applications, is the destination of those whose duties call them to spread themselves abroad. A regimen of continued solitude may be useful, but it is an exception. Occasional solitude is the rule for most men. Alternate retirement and society is for moral progress what the mixture of theory and observation is for the progress of the sciences. Solitude has its exaggerations, as theory its hypotheses. Solitude and theory may gather fruits for themselves; but their true and legitimate employment should be to prepare for the intercourse of the world and the arts of observation; deprived of the instrument of elaboration, the latter are only dissipation of heart and empiricism of intellect.

Do you fear solitude? This is an infallible sign that it is necessary to you: you have not learnt to know yourself; and this again is a sign that you have a malady of soul, which solitude may discover to you, and perhaps will cure. With a reason strong, and a heart burning to do good, is life before you? Then go into solitude, and prepare the means of usefulness. Are you called upon to take some important resolution? Are you placed in unexpected and difficult circumstances? Go into solitude, and consult your strength, foresee and combine your plans of conduct. Have you seen much of life? In solitude you can put in order your painful experiences, and returning to the world you may apply and prove the labors of retirement. Solitude suits especially both youth and old age. But the serious drama of middle life must have its intervals. There must be resting places in the career. Go into solitude on the evening and the morning of every great event of your life.

Do you wish to receive all the utility both of solitude and of society? Endeavor, when in society, to preserve an inward solitude, and in solitude, to create a world such as you

will one day live in. Live also in society as if you would quit it to-morrow, and in retirement as if to-morrow you were to communicate with men, and to serve them.

SOLITUDE.

DEEP Solitude I sought. There was a dell
Where woven shades shut out the eye of day,
While, towering near, the rugged mountains made
Dark back-ground 'gainst the sky. Thither I went,
And bade my spirit drink that lonely draught,
For which it long had languished 'mid the strife
And fever of the world. I thought to be
There without witness. But the violet's eye
Looked up upon me,-the fresh wild-rose smiled,
And the young pendent vine-flower kissed my cheek
And there were voices too. The garrulous brook,
Untiring, to the patient pebbles told

Its history;-up came the singing breeze,
And the broad leaves of the cool poplar spakę
Responsive, every one. Even busy life
Woke in that dell.

The tireless spider threw
From spray to spray her silver-tissued snare.
The wary ant, whose curving pincers pierced
The treasured grain, toiled toward her citadel.
To the sweet hive went forth the loaded bee,
And from the wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird
Sang to her nurslings.

Yet I strangely thought
To be alone, and silent in thy realm,
Spirit of life and love! It might not be!
There is no solitude in thy domains,

Save what man makes, when, in his selfish breast,
He locks his joys, and bars out others' grief.

Thou hast not left thyself to Nature's round

Without a witness. Trees, and flowers, and streams,
Are social and benevolent; and he

Who oft communeth in their language pure,
Roaming among them at the cool of day,
Shall find, like him who Eden's garden dressed,
His Maker there, to teach his listening heart.

IMMORTALITY.

ALAS! what would mean that secret but insatiable emotion of our soul, which incessantly directs towards a higher perfection all those sighs, which constantly call for a better state and all those glances, turned upward, which are the expectation of the accomplishment of a great mystery? What would mean that idea of infinity, which becomes the most cruel poison if it is not a just and glorious hope, that tendency to higher states; those desires which call upon all that is capable of elevating us; that inward sentiment which declares that we are the neophytes of a better life;-that natural dignity and pride which is so unjustifiable, when we consider only what we really are;-those purer and warm affections, which would otherwise have so transient an object;-that faculty of loving, which would only find such imperfect and limited objects; and that virtue, so true in all which we can control by experience, and which would be baffled in its dearest interests in what we cannot yet verify? What would earth be, the orphan of God? What would be humanity, disinherited of immortal life? O does not all morality invoke and proclaim with unanimous voice this last relation of man with his Author, of the present with the future, which alone solves all the problems of existence! Religion, doubtless, is a sigh of weakness; but it is, above all, a wish and want of virtue, which alone nourishes those noble instincts which religion is to satisfy. Virtue thrills at the sight of religion, with the same joy a son feels when he flies into the arms of his mother. And what voice would be raised within men to answer to the Creator's voice, if not that of conscience? What powers would greet and receive religion, when presenting itself upon earth, and would bring to it the reverence of men, if not those moral powers by which humanity is animated, elevated, and directed? What principle could germinate religious truths, in a soul deprived of the sense of what is just and good? What intelligible language could piety address to a heart dear to virtue? Of what use is it to seek laboriously, whether or not, in some corner of the globe, some ignorant colony may be found, which, sunk into stupidity by the want of the chief necessaries of life, has only confused ideas of the Supreme Benefactor, and the worship due to him? What is the importance we attach to the vague narrations of travellers? Yes, religious ideas enlarge and develope with civilization, be