flown back, and were holding melancholy communion with "the days of other years." The image of her who formerly filled my soul with gladness, my lost Julia, was presented strongly to my fancy. I remem bered her charms of mind and person, with the dear confession that her heart, a heart in which every virtue delighted to dwell, was wholly mine. Such happiness as I was now witnessing seemed once to be allotted for me; it appeared almost within my grasp; I stretched my hands to seize the rich prize of my wishes; but death interposed his terrible arm, my Julia sunk into the grave, and my bright visions of earthly felicity vanished forever.

These painful reflections followed me to my pillow. I became ashamed, as a Christian, of indulging them; and strove, for after so many years, it still cost me a strife with myself,-to feel resigned to that will which governs the universe. The battle was to be fought in which I had contended a thousand times before. But, thanks to the Giver of all good, my efforts were not made in vain; I closed my eyes in peace.

The train of my waking meditations, however, was continued in sleep; tinctured with that inexplicable wildness by which dreams are characterized. I imagined myself to be walking alone in a certain sequestered, enchanting valley, near the house where Julia had lived. It was a place in which we used to spend many a golden hour together, talking of our love; planning schemes for future life when we should be united; and sometimes conversing upon those glories which are reserved for the righteous beyond this temporary world. In my dream, every part of the scene around me seemed familiar to my sight; the tall, thickshadowing trees, the rocks awfully projected from the sides of the lofty hills, and the clear stream, now gliding quietly along, and then thrown down a steep, broken channel with a pleasing murmur. Arriving at a favourite point on the bank, I sat down; but Julia was not with me. I thought and felt that I had not seen

her for many tedious days; but could not conjecture any reason for her absence. I said to myself, she preferred this spot to all others; why has she-forsaken it? Here she often leaned upon my enraptured bosom, herself not less enraptured, while hour after hour roll ́ed away; and why do I find her here no more?? In the midst of such musings as these, by which I was profoundly bewildered, a sudden light seemed to burst upon me. I lifted my eyes, and saw, at a little distance, the very angel my soul was longing for. It was Julia; but O how improved! I will not attempt to describe the character of her countenance, nor the robės of light in which she was arrayed. Hers was no longer mortal beauty firing my breast; but celestial excellence, soft and gentle as ever, yet majestic beyondexpression, overwhelming me with astonishment and veneration. I tried in vain to rise and approach her, After some time, finding utterance given me, I exclaimed, my love, do I once more behold you? It is long, long indeed, since I saw you last. Where have you been hidden all this while, that I could not discover you? Have you then forgotten that I died, that I am not now an inhabitant of your world?' These words instantaneously restored to my memory a host of afflictive ideas; the death bed of my Julia, her tender adieus, her parting sigh, the last view of her life bess face, the grave which swallowed up all my treasure. I wept with agony. Yes, I had forgotten it; but alas, it is too true, I have lost you forever; and that heart which I prized above all computation beats for me no longer.' Peace, my friend,' she replied; 'you are still dear to me, far dearer than ever. was not merely nor chiefly an earthborn love; it was that union of virtuous souls which shall be exalted and perpetuated in eternity. I am permitted,―thanks to our God for the permission,-to pay you this visit, for the purpose of giving you consolation. You wished to make your Julia happy; and as I told you in my mortal days, I relied upon you, next to Heaven, for

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happiness. My severest pang in dying was that of being sundered from you. But death was my ineffable gain. All that you purposed to do for her whom you loved would have been as nothing, compared with my present exaltation in the realms of bliss. I dwell in the immediate presence of that Saviour whom we both adored beyond all earthly objects of attachment. But I cannot convey to you any adequate idea of what God has laid up in heaven for his people. You will know it when you come to partake of it. Until then, let: your very love of Julia reconcile you to her early removal. Call it her release from all sin, temptation, and pain. I am commissioned to assure you also that even this event, which has cost you so many tears of anquish, was intended by infinite wisdom for your good. You are not yet to see this mystery explained; but wait patiently till the appointed time, and you shall understand it clearly. Why do you murmur against your heavenly Father, when you ought to know that, however dark are his dispensations, it is only in mercy that he afflicts you? Bow humbly to his will at all seasons; trust his promises; and know certainly that you shall praise him in strains of immortal gratitude for those strokes of his hand which prostrate you in the dust. He has taught you the way to heaven; pursue it steadfastly and zealously; aiming continually to promote his cause, and the welfare of mankind, in the station where you are placed. So shall you finish your course with joy. We shall soon meet in the paradise above; with which if you compare this retreat, once so fondly dear to our hearts, it is but as the valley of the shadow of death.

My Julia's words enkindled such transports of delight in my breast that I felt constrained to cry out, 'glory to God in the highest! He has done all things well. I will spend and be spent in his service; I will never more rebel against his providence. His will is always the wisest, always the best.-'So great was my ecstacy that I awoke from sleep; and behold, it was a dream.

No. 44. NOVEMBER 30, 1815.

On Sympathy.

MR. MOUNTAINEER,

THERE is in human nature a wonderful thing called the sympathy of souls. I wish to display it to your readers; but fear that I shall have little success in attempting to unfold what is so subtile and mysterious. Be that as it may, I am persuaded that the thing itself, which is rather to be felt than delineated, will be recognised by every one who is in the habit of careful and accurate observation. It is probably what we mean in general by the agreement of tastes; but I want to analyze the matter a little by descending to particulars.

In some minds there is a striking similarity in the modes of thinking; that is to say, of forming ideas and combining them together. In the intercourse of such minds, the intellectual kindred is perceived immediately and strongly. It may happen that on our entering into conversation for the first time, while you are giving me your views of some subject, I am conscious that just such have been my own thoughts. I see that we agree in starting at the same point, grappling with the same difficulties, and pursuing the same train of investigation. I even anticipate you frequently as you go along. And if I have never applied myself to the subject on which I am hearing you, I still have an impression that I should have done it in the very way that you do, had I done it at all. On the other hand, where the degrees of mental vigour are about equal, we often find as decided a dissimilarity in the modes of thought. You discuss a subject which I also have discussed. Our reasonings, I discover, are, in substance, the same, and conduct us to the same conclusion. Yet your process wears a face of strangeness to me, a kind of foreign air; and it costs me a * continual exertion to follow the path in which you are leading me.

In the next place, there is a similarity in the modes of feeling. While you and I take a woodland walk, we are alike delighted with the scenes of nature, and prefer them, rude and simple as they are, to all the splendid productions of the ingenuity of man. Amidst all the bright colours which decorate the garden, we unite in pronouncing the rose far the loveliest and dearest of flowers. In reading Paradise Lost, we agree entirely that Milton's sinless Eve combines every excellence requisite to the perfection of the female character. In contrast with this, we meet with minds endowed with wisdom and culture, which feel very diversely, and even adversely, upon a thousand subjects. The visible scenes, the characters and manners, the studies and pursuits, which captivate the one are indifferent, perhaps even more than indifferent, to the other.

It is worth while to notice, also, the variety that exists in our modes of expressing our sentiments and feelings. Even where we contemplate things and are affected by them pretty much alike, there is an endless diversity in the ways which we use to exhibit what passes in our minds. Thus one is exact in his style, another loose; one is concise, another copious; one plain, another flowery and figurative.

The concords and discords to which I have adverted result in a great degree, no doubt, from education, taking that word in its most comprehensive sense. Yet I believe there is also a difference in the original structure of human minds. And this, I think, may be held in full consistency with the principle, not to be relinquished, that there is, as to all subjects of importance, a fixed standard of taste, founded in the nature of things.

Is it any contradiction to assert that while these diversities of taste give a vast interest to the general intercourse of society, which it would not otherwise possess, they often form an insuperabie bar to the most intimate union of souls? To me it appears that both these propositions are true..