times less happy than we are, if we yield to the temptation of keeping them: we should have a better bed, and we should not sleep more soundly; we should have better clothes, and we should no more dare to go to church in them than in our rags; and when the day shall come in which we are to give an account of our actions, what excuse should we offer for this? Our extreme poverty? but that is an additional motive for being honest, because we are so often tempted not to be so, and because we must not part with the only treasure that is left us-our peace of conscience. Take courage, Bertha; we shall not die with hunger: look around, and see all these fields covered with corn; the harvest is coming, and we shall glean. The judge is kind to us, and see what a fine crop he has got! I wager that he will even give us two or three sheaves; and the parson too: and that will be better than this gold, which does not belong to us.

BERTHA, sighing. Yes, for food; but where shall we get any thing for clothes?

MARCELLUS. Heaven will provide them. Have I not just read to you, that it clothes the lilies of the field, and that we must take no thought for the morrow? The traveller will perhaps give me a reward. I shall not deserve it, for so simple an affair; but if he should give me enough to buy you a table-cloth, Bertha, I will accept it willingly, and gratefully.

BERTHA. It is very well; but where will you find him again?

MARCELLUS. I shall instantly cut across the fields. You know that the road makes a great circuit on account of the river: one gains more than a quarter of a league by this path, and I trust to find him below.

BERTHA. I hope you will; but if you should not find him?

MARCELLUS. Oh! then, dear wife, in spite of my repugnance, I shall resolve on

BERTHA. Keeping the eight louis-will you not?

MARCELLUS. Begging to support me on my journey to the city, and to enable me to pay for an advertisement which I will put into the paper. Go, look for my stick, Bertha, and do not make yourself uneasy if I am not back immediately; only make haste.

Bertha ran: she was ashamed at having misunderstood her husband. This last determination of his had rekindled in her heart those virtuous sentiments which the sight of the gold had but obscured for a moment. She returned immediately with the stick. Take it, said she, and go as quickly as you can. I wish that this vile gold, which has drawn me into sin, were no longer in our hands. Marcellus set out; but his legs, stiffened by age, and by his sedentary occupation, did not obey his heart, and he walked with difficulty. The wind blew through the locks of his white hair, and the rags of his poor clothing. Bertha followed him with her eyes to the top of the hill, and wished that she could hasten his progress by looking after him. He will miss his traveller, said she, and the poor old man will kill himself with walking six long leagues to the city. But I am beside myself; it is I that ought to go. I am six years younger, and I am much stronger. Come; he goes so slowly that I shall soon catch him. And now behold Bertha, at more than sixty-five years of age, fancying herself young in comparison with her husband, and actually running as if she were but thirty! She overtook him at the end of the field, and held him by the arm. Sit down here, said she, and let me go in your stead.

MARCELLUS. No, my good Bertha; you have not seen the man, you will not know him again, and you will perhaps meet with some knave, who will tell you that the money is his.

BERTHA. Ah! that is true; but give me a description of the traveller. Is he young or old, tall or short, fair or brown? what is the colour of his coat? MARCELLUS. I saw him but at a distance, and yet I am myself certain of knowing him again. He is a man of middle age, rather tall and stout, and of a remarkably brown complexion. But listen to me, Bertha; let us go together; we shall mutually assist each other. He took his wife's arm under his own, and the poor aged couple went along as quick as they were able. They stopped at the end of the path which fell into the road; and, in looking right and left, they had the pleasure, in less than a minute, of seeing the pedestrian at a distance, not yet arrived at the end of the circuit. There he is! it is he himself! cried Marcellus; let us go to meet him. When they were come within ten paces of the traveller, the latter, having seen them direct their steps toward him, doubted not that they intended to ask charity; and their appearance was so infirm and miserable, that he prepared himself to give before they should say a word.

BERTHA. Much obliged to you, worthy gentleman, but we ask for nothing; it is we, on the contrary, who are desirous to give you something. STRANGER. Give me something! my worthy friends; but how is this? MARCELLUS. My wife mistakes, sir; she does not mean gire; we come to restore you your own. Did you not rest yourself, half an hour ago, under a nut-tree, on a little hill by the road-side?

STRANGER. Yes-yes-nothing can be more true; and now I recolleet having seen you: you were at the window of a cottage opposite. Your white locks and venerable aspect struck me.

MARCELLUS. You opened your wallet there?

STRANGER. Yes, surely I did. I had not breakfasted at leaving my last lodging, and I ate a morsel with pleasure under that beautiful tree. MARCELLUS. I had pleasure too, in seeing your happy air. You spread out a piece of silk also, you returned it to your wallet, and it was doubtlessly at that time that you dropped a paper containing

STRANGER. Four double-louis, if it is mine, with a gold cross and chain in a small separate paper, which latter contains a few lines of writing.

Marcellus had seen the lines, but had not been able to read them, because he had left his spectacles in the prayer-book. The traveller opened his wallet, and emptied it, but could not find his gold. I knew very well, said Marcellus, that you would not find it there, because I have it in my hand. Here, sir, are your four double-louis, and your necklace; put them into the wallet again, and take better care of them another time. The stranger received them with an expression of respect and gratitude, and pressed the hands of the old man between his own. You render me a very great service, said he; and, if I may judge from your appearance, you have no ordinary merit in rendering it: it seems to me, my good old people, that you are very poor?

BERTHA. Oh! so poor, my worthy gentleman, that—

MARCELLUS. We have not even been tempted to appropriate to ourselves a sum so large: it is above all our necessities, of which the first is that of keeping nothing which does not lawfully belong to us.

STRANGER. Honest and virtuous couple! at your age to take such a journey to bring me this little treasure! could you not have sent it to me by one of your children?

BERTHA. Alas! sir, we have none. That is our greatest trouble, and nobody can relieve it: we have had some; and

MARCELLUS. And at least when we suffer, we suffer alone.-But come,

my poor wife, let us leave the gentleman to continue his way. Good journey, sir; do not lose your money again.

The stranger appeared embarrassed. No, no, my good father, said he, (taking again the hand of the old man,) not thus: one moment more, I beg of you; let us sit down, and do you listen to me. The destination of this gold is sacred; it does not belong to me. I will tell you its destination, and you will see that I can take nothing from it. I am possessed, beside that, of no more than I have need of to finish my journey, of which I have ten or twelve leagues still to perform; but within eight days I hope to see you again, and to discharge what I owe you. Will you place confidence in my word, and tell me your name? As to the rest, I shall forget neither the little hillock, nor the cottage which holds so virtuous a couple. Your name, I beg, said he, taking a pencil out of his pocket?

MARCELLUS. I am called the Old Cobbler of the Cottage. I shall see you again with pleasure, if you recollect it; but, if you forget it, we shall not the less pray to God for you, for you have given us an hour's happiness, and we have not many such. Farewell, sir!

STRANGER. Worthy man! if I were capable of forgetting you, I should not deserve the happiness which I am going to seek, and which I tremble lest I should not find. It is more than five-and-twenty years since I left my family; during all that time, I have had no news of it: my parents, doubtlessly, think me dead, or perhaps are themselves no longer alive; but if I find them again, how blest shall we all be!

BERTHA, weeping. Ah! yes, indeed. Blest, a thousand times blest, those who find their children again upon the earth! As for us, we shall never see them but in heaven, where they await us.

MARCELLUS. You see, my wife, whether I was wrong this morning, when I said that living children are also the occasion of many sorrows. Here is one that seems to be a worthy man; well! he has quitted his parents, and left them twenty-five years without news of him: is not this worse than death?

STRANGER. I was guilty, indeed, when, through youthful folly, and seduced by a recruiting officer, I enlisted without their permission; but the rest is not my fault. The regiment into which I entered was ordered to Batavia, where I was at first sent into the interior of the country, to work at my trade of carpenter; and thus I passed many years without having it in my power to write. When I came back to Batavia, I wrote many letters to my father, but never received any reply. I was successful in getting money, but of what use is it when the heart is uneasy? Mine was in Europe. I thought incessantly of the village in which I was born, and in which I had left all that I loved in the world-my father, my mother, and my sister. I resolved on returning home, and I embarked with my little fortune. I arrived happily at Hamburgh two months ago, and there I found by chance my old master with whom I had learned my trade, and who had fixed himself there since my departure. I knew him at once, but he could not recognise me, for I had grown a little tawny beneath the suns of Batavia, as you see. When I told him my name, he was greatly surprised. He received me as a son, and took me to his house. There I found his daughter, whom I had left a little child, grown up tall and pretty. Every day, I resolved on going in search of my parents the next; but Annette asked me to stay a day longer, and I stayed: it was in my power to refuse her nothing. I had written on my arrival, and I awaited an answer. Seeing that it did not come, I said one day to my master, Your

systems, while a rigid adherence to it may be expected to conduct us to the true science of mind. Suppose a man denied the existence of any power of mind, how would you meet his denial and try to convince him that such a power did form a part of the mental constitution, but by arguments derived from consciousness? If you could not appeal to his consciousness, you must fail to convince him; for we are as little entitled to assert any quality to belong to the mind of which we are not conscious, or for which we have not the indubitable authority of the consciousness of others, as we are entitled to assert any quality as a property of iron, which we have not observed or received on the faith of the observation of credible witnesses. In examination of various systems, it is only by consulting the reports of our own consciousness that we can detect in them what is true, and separate it from the errors with which it may be mixed. Psychological observation, then, is the only method in mental science. As knowledge of the phenomena of mind is the only foundation of the science, so consciousness is the only method by which such an acquaintance with them can be obtained. From the nature of the thing, nothing can rival or supersede this method.

If so, what has Phrenology to do with the science of mind? Does it pretend to discover any new faculty, the existence of which is not proved by consciousness, or any thing at all about mind independent of consciousness? What can it achieve in mental science for which the old philosophy is incompetent? It asserts the correspondence of certain organs with certain mental facts. But what is the science of mind to gain by this? Will the organs aid it in the discovery or analysis of mental phenomena? Verily no! An analysis of the mind by consciousness must precede the appropriation of particular organs to particular faculties. Before the organ can be assigned to the faculty, the existence of the faculty must be ascertained; and how can this be done but by consciousness? If its existence is ascertained by consciousness, what more have we to learn from Phrenology? If not, how can an organ be assigned to a faculty, the existence of which is not ascertained? So that, after all, Phrenology, as distinguished from "the old philosophy," cannot discover any thing about mind; and, on the data it supplies, no mental philosophy of any sort can be established. But the discovery of the mere fact of a correspondence between one set of physical and another set of mental facts, does not entitle Phrenology to the rank of mental science; otherwise physiognomy is equally entitled to that rank. Neither have any thing to do with science of mind; and instead of designating their science Phrenology, its advocates should have adhered to its former name of Craniology, or adopted a more appropriate one.

II. But supposing the possibility of a new mode of investigation into mental phenomena independently of consciousness, or rather supposing that Phrenology does not pretend to any thing beyond the discovery that there is a correspondence between certain organs and certain mental phenomena-it is of course expected for that boasted correspondence to hold good. There must be an exact coincidence between the list of organs supplied on phrenological principles, and the list of simple faculties to which a rigid analysis may reduce the innumerable variety of mental phenomena. We must of course be first in possession of the list of mental faculties, as recognised by our consciousness, and make it the standard of the comparison. Since, however, there is considerable diversity in the results of analyses into mental phenomena by different philosophers, (a

diversity which arises from the degree to which the analysis has been carried,) we need not refer to any particular schools or systems of philosophy, but appeal to those original powers which every intelligent observer may ascertain by consulting his consciousness. Do the phrenological organs then exactly correspond with what every observer may ascertain by a careful analysis to be primitive faculties of the mind? Are they competent to account for all mental phenomena ? Are there no redundancies-no deficiencies? Yes, there are; and we shall briefly indicate a few which may guide the reader in pressing the examination a little further.

1. There are great redundancies. E. G. There is an organ of form, and another of size. There is no need for original powers to account for our ideas of form and size, otherwise on the same principle we must demand original powers to judge of distances, heights, lengths, &c. Every one may see that both form and size are reducible into extension, ideas of which are the result of the sense of touch. Form is but the comparative extension of the several parts of the same object, and size is but the comparative extension of two separate objects. Again, ideas of extension, though seemingly original, are obviously derivative-being among those which arise from a coalescence, by frequent association, of other ideas and feelings; like an act of vision, it is a complex process, resulting from certain inextricable associations, the products of the sight, the touch, and the muscular movement. By frequent and long association they have so coalesced as to become apparently one simple idea; but it is not so. There are no simple and original powers corresponding with the organs of form and size. Let the reader in the same manner examine the list, and compare it with the results of his own mental analysis, and he will discover in the list a very sloven redundancy. Thus we have an organ for veneration, which is obviously the result of love, fear, and marvellousness, and not an original faculty. Again, we have separate organs for love, of sex, children, home, friends, property, &c.; all which are the same in the nature of their operations, and differ only in their objects. So form, size, weight, colouring, time, &c. are resolvable into judgment and the principle of suggestionare identical in their nature, and differ only in the objects on which the faculty is engaged.

2. But a still more palpable and fatal objection is, that there are no organs for faculties which we may ascertain to be simple and original ones. Perhaps the clearest analysis may not be so perfect as not to admit of doubt, and the resolution of complex states into simpler ones may not in all cases be perfectly evident. But there are some operations so manifestly original, that almost every one "who runs may read." And if any such primitive powers are not provided with an organ by which to perform that which is unquestionably accomplished in the mind-such a defect must be fatal to the science of Phrenology.

Now, memory must be an original faculty, because it implies an element which cannot be accounted for otherwise. That element is not the recurrence of ideas which is explained by the laws of association, but the recognition of ideas thus recurring as having been entertained before. Without this recognition and reference to past time, the same ideas might perpetually recur, but always as new ideas which are conceived for the first time; and it has never been satisfactorily shown into what simpler elements this recognition of ideas, as known in past time, could be reduced. But memory is not favored with an organ in special on the phrenological list ; must we therefore, and in spite of consciousness, deny that memory is a