What we can quote is only a taste of these volumes, filled with the rarest beauties of thought and expression. They are but broken fragments, and indeed such is all he has left; but, “luminous with beauty, they show how admirable was his style of man,—all the powers of his mind adjusted, not one unused in its office, but as lights, each reflecting on the other, and making the soul the place of clear vision, radiant with the first elements that enter into the best creations."


Perhaps no intellectual emotion of our maturer life comes upon us with so much novelty, and strength, and delight, as that shock of surprise and pleasure which we receive from the sight of the snowy pinnacles of the Alps, shooting up into the blue heaven, and standing together in silent mysterious vastness. It provokes not to expression, but sinks upon the stilled heart, with a strange, exquisite feeling, essentially spiritual in its solemnity and depth. Our native and familiar earth is seen expanding into the sublimity of the heavens, and we feel as if our destiny were exalted along with it. The wonder and sensibility of childhood return upon us. Niagara,—the ocean,—cathedrals,—all these, when seen for the first time, touch chords of immortality within our being. But none of them in quickness and fineness and depth of force can be equalled to the aspect of the Alps. Material and moral qualities combine to render it the most awing and ennobling that can pass before living eyes. There is a calming, elevating, consoling influence in the quietness of power, the repose of surpassing magnificence, in which these mighty eminences rest, living out their great lives in silent and motionless serenity; and our turbulent and troubled souls are reproved and chastened by the spectacle.


What a world within Life's open world is the interior of St. Peter's a world of softness, brightness, and richness !—fusing the sentiments in a refined rapture of tranquillity,-gratifying the imagination with splendors more various, expansive, and exhaustless than the natural universe from which we pass,—typical of that sphere of spiritual consciousness, which, before the inwardworking energies of Faith, arches itself out within man's mortal being. When you push aside the heavy curtain that veils the sanctuary from the [MS. wanting) without, what a shower of high and solemn pleasure is thrown upon your spirit! A glory of beauty fills all the Tabernacle. The majesty of a Perfection, that seems fragrant of delightfulness, fills it like a Presence. Grandeur, strength, solidity,--suggestive of the fixed Infinite, -float unsphered within those vaulted spaces, like clouds of lustre. The immensity of the size,—the unlimitable richness of the treasure that has been lavished upon its decoration by the enthusiastic prodigality of the Catholic world through successive centuries, —dwarf Man and the Present, and leave the soul open to sentiments of God and Eternity. The eye, as it glances along column and archway, meets nothing but variegated marbles and gold. Among the ornaments of the obscure parts of the walls and piers are a multitude of pictures, vast in magnitude, transcendent in merit,—the master-pieces of the world, the Communion of St. Jerome,—the Burial of St. Petronilla,—the Transfiguration of the Saviour,—not of perishable canvass and oils, but wrought in mosaic, and fit to endure till Time itself shall perish.

It is the sanctuary of Space and Silence. No throng can crowd these aisles; no sound of voices or of organs can displace the venerable quiet that broods here. The Pope, who fills the world with all his pompous retinue, fills not St. Peter's; and the roar of his quired singers, mingling with the sonorous chant of a host of priests and bishops, struggles for an instant against this ocean of stillness, and then is absorbed into it like a faint echo. The mightiest ceremonies of human worship-celebrated by the earth's chief Pontiff, sweeping along in the magnificence of the most imposing array that the existing world can exhibitdwindled into insignificance within this structure. They do not explain to our feelings the uses of the building: As you

stand within the gorgeous, celestial dwelling—framed not for man's abode—the holy silence, the mysterious fragrance, the light of ever-burning lamps, suggest to you that it is the home of invisible spirits,-an outer court of Heaven,-visited, perchance, in the deeper hours of a night that is never dark within its walls, by the all-sacred Awe itself.



The first thing that I came upon here was the great crater of the eruption of 1794,-now dry and scorious, and black as a bosom in which sensual passion has burnt itself to exhaustion. Though crusted over and closed, it was steaming and smoking through sundry apertures. Traversing it, I arrived at the large crater of 1850,-a still raw and open ulcer of earth. The wind was blowing from us, and the circumstances were favorable for viewing the cavity. It was filled with a dense volume of white gas, which was whirling and rapidly ascending; but the breeze occasionally drove it to the opposite side and disclosed the depths of the frightful chasm. It descended a prodigious distance, in the shape of an inverted, truncated cone, and then terminated in a circular opening. The mysteries of the profound immensity beyond, no human eye might see, no human heart conceive. We hurled some stones into the gulf and listened till they struck below. The guide gravely assured me that ten minutes elapsed before the sound was heard; I found, by the watch, that the interval was,

in reality, something over three quarters of a minute ;—and that seems almost incredibly long. When the vapor, at intervals, so far thinned away that one could see across, as through a vista, the opposite side of the crater, viewed athwart the mist, seemed several miles distant, though in fact but a few hundred feet. The interior of the shelving crater was entirely covered over with a bed of knob-like blossoms of brilliant white, yellow, green, red, brown,—the sulphurous flowers of Hell. I cannot describe this spectacle, for, in impression and appearance, alike, it resembles nothing else that I have seen before or since. It was like Death,

-which has no similitudes in life. It was like a vision of the Second Death. As the sun gleamed at times through the white breath that swayed and twisted about the maw of the accursed monstrosity, there seemed to be an activity in the vaulted depth ; but it was the activity of shadows in the concave of nothingness. It seemed the emblem of destruction, itself, extinct. There was somethin: about it revoltingly beautiful, disgustingly splendid. One while, its circling rim looked like the parched shore of the ever-absorbing and ever-empty sea of annihilation. Another while, it seemed like a fetid cancer on the breast of earth, destined one day to consume it. To me it was purely uncomfortable and wholly uninspiring. It seemed to freeze back fancy and sentiment to their sources. It was not terrible, it was merely horrible. It is a thing to see once, but I care not to see such a thing again in this world; and Jesus grant that I may see nothing like it in the next !

WASHINGTON.-HAMILTON.' If we compare him with the great men who were his contemporaries throughout the nation, in an age of extraordinary personages, Washington was unquestionably the first man of the time in ability. Review the correspondence of General Washington,—that sublime monument of intelligence and integrity,– scrutinize the public history and the public men of that era, and you will find that in all the wisdom that was accomplished or was attempted, Washington was before every man in his suggestions of the plan, and beyond every one in the extent to which he contributed to its adoption. In the field, all the able generals

1 These remarks on Washington and Hamilton are wonderfully beautiful, discriminating, and just.

acknowledged his superiority, and looked up to him with loyalty, reliance, and reverence; the others, who doubted his ability, or conspired against his sovereignty, illustrated in their own conduct their incapacity to be either his judges or his rivals. In the state, Adams, Jay, Rutledge, Pinckney, Morris, — these are great names ;

but there is not one whose wisdom does not veil to his. His superiority was felt by all these persons, and was felt by Washington himself, as a simple matter of fact, as little a subject of question or a cause of vanity as the eminence of his personal stature. His appointment as commander-in-chief was the result of no design on his part, and of no efforts on the part of his friends : it seemed to take place spontaneously. He moved into the position, because there was a vacuum which no other could supply; in it, he was not sustained by government, by a party, or by connections; he sustained himself; and then he sustained every thing else. He sustained Congress against the army, and the army against the injustice of Congress. The brightest mind among his contemporaries was Hamilton's,—a character which cannot be contemplated without frequent admiration, and constant affection. His talents took the form of genius, which Washington's did not. But active, various, and brilliant as the faculties of Hamilton were, whether viewed in the precocity of youth or in the all-accomplished elegance of maturer life, - lightningquick as his intelligence was to see through every, subject that came before it, and vigorous as it was in constructing the argumentation by which other minds were to be led, as upon a shapely bridge, over the obscure depths across which his had flashed in a moment,-fertile and sound in schemes, ready in action, splendid in display, as he was,-nothing is more obvious and certain than that when Mr. Hamilton approached Washington, he came into the presence of one who surpassed him in the extent, in the comprehension, the elevation, the sagacity, the force, and the ponderousness of his mind, as much as he did in the majesty of his aspect and the grandeur of his step. The genius of Hamilton was a flower, which gratifies, surprises, and enchants; the intelligence of Washington was a stately tree, which in the rarity and true dignity of its beauty is as superior as it is in its dimensions.

In moral qualities, the character of Washington is the most truly dignified that was ever presented to the respect and admiration of mankind. He was one of the few entirely good men in whom goodness had no touch of weakness. He was one of the few rigorously just men whose justice was not commingled with any of the severity of personal temper. The elevation, and strength, and greatness of his feelings were derived from Nature; their moderation was the effect of reflection and discipline. His

temper, by nature, was ardent, and inclined to action. His passions were quick, and capable of an intensity of motion which, when it was kindled by either intellectual or moral indignation, amounted almost to fury. But how rarely-how less than rarely —was any thing of this kind exhibited in his public career! How restrained from all excess which reason could reprove, or virtue condemn, or good taste reject, were these earnest impulses, in the accommodation of his nature to “that great line of duty" which he had set up as the course of his life! Seen in his public duties, his attitude and character—the one elevated above familiarity, the other purged of all littlenesses-present a position and an image almost purely sublime.

But when viewed in the gentler scenes of domestic and friendly relation, there are traits which give loveliness to dignity, and add grace to veneration; like the leaves and twigs which cluster around the trunk and huge branches of the colossal elm, making that beautiful which else were only grand. His sentiments were quick and delicate ; his refinement exquisite. His temper was as remote from plebeian as his principles were opposite to democratic. If his public bearing had something of the solemnity of Puritanism, the sources of his social nature were the spirit and maxims of a cavalier. His demeanor towards all men illustrated, in every condition, that “finest sense of justice which the mind can form.” IN ALL THINGS ADMIRABLE, IN ALL THINGS TO BE IMITATED; IN SOME THINGS SCARCE IMITABLE AND ONLY TO BE ADMIRED.


A. CLEVELAND Coxe (who has adopted an older spelling of the family name) is the son of Rev. Samuel H. Cox, D.D., and Abiah Hyde Cleveland,' and was

" He gets his middle name from his mother, the daughter of Rev. Aaron Cleveland, (1744-1815,) of Norwich and Hartford, Connecticut. He was the son of Rev. Aaron Cleveland (1719-1757, a graduate at Harvard College in 1735,) and, from bis promising talents, was early destined for college. But, bis father (rector of the Episcopal Church at Newcastle, Delaware) dying when he was but twelve years old, and leaving nine other children unprovided for, he was apprenticed to a batter, and, when of age, established himself in business at Norwich. Subsequently in 1775) he was chosen a representative to the State Legislature, and served in that capacity for two years. When he was over forty years of age, he experienced a great change in bis religious views, and immediately entered upon the study of theology. He was ordained two years afterwards, and preached with great acceptance in various places (part of the time as a missionary in the early settlements of Vermont) until the day of his death, which took place in New Haven in 1815. He was a man of strong native powers of mind, of a most benevolent temper, and of quick and genial wit and bumor, which made him a delightful companion. He wrote a great deal, but was so careless of his productions that but few have

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