the voice of music as if she were an embodiment of the spirit of harmony, feels none of the pure joy which once possessed her, when, in the freedom of childish mirth, her dance was but the evidence of a lightsome heart. It is only when the will is left free to direct the faculties that we can derive full gratification from our consciousness of power; and if this be true of the body —that mere machine which, from its earliest sentient moment, is submitted to restraint and subjection-how much more so is it of the free and unchained mind! It matters not whether the fetters that are laid upon the soul be forged from the iron sceptre of necessity, or wrought from the golden treasures of ambition; still they are but chains, and he who would feel the true majesty of mental power must never have worn the badge of thraldom.

It is not the triumph of satisfied ambition which affords the highest gratification to the truly noble-minded. Intellectual toil is its own exceeding great reward. The applause of the world may gladden the heart and quicken the pulse of the aspirant for fame, but the brightest crown that was ever laid on the brow of genius imparts no such thrill of joy as he felt in that delicious moment when the consciousness of power first came upon him. It is this sense of power-this innate consciousness of hidden strength, which is his most valued guerdon; and well would it be for him if the echo of worldly fame never resounded in the quiet, secluded chambers of his secret soul! Well would it be if no hand ever offered to his lips the cup of adulation, whose magic sweetness awakens a thirst no repeated draughts can slake! Well would it be if the voice of a clamorous multitude never mingled with the sweeter music of his own gentle fancies! Well would it be if he could always abide in the pure regions of elevated thought, leaving the mists and the darkness, the lightnings and tempests of a lower world, beneath his feet! Titian, living amid wealth and honors, and dying in the arms of a weeping monarch, presents to the eye of thought a far less noble picture than the poor, unfriended, humble Correggio, when, at the sight of some glorious works of art, the veil which had hidden his own resplendent genius was suddenly lifted from his eyes, and he exclaimed, in the ecstasy of an enlightened spirit, “Io anche son pittore!" I too am a painter!

With the first knowledge of innate power to the mind of genius comes also the desire of benefiting humanity, and, at that moment, when the fire which God has lighted within the soul burns upward with a steady light toward heaven, while it diffuses its pure splendors on a darkened world around-at such a moment man is indeed but a little lower than the angels.

"Could he keep his spirit to this pitch

He might be happy;"

but, alas! the mists of earth rise up around him; the light is dimmed upon the altar; less holy gleams shoot athwart the growing darkness, and, too often, the fading flame of spiritual existence is rekindled at the bale-fires of the nether world.

There is something fearful in the responsibility which attaches to the expression of human thought and feeling. "We may have done that yesterday," says Madame de Stäel, "which has colored our whole future life." Appalling as this idea is, the reflection that in some idle mood and in some uncounted moment, now gone past recall, we may have uttered that which has influenced the opinions, the feelings, perhaps the fate of another, is even more terrific to the conscience. Who cannot remember some single word, some careless remark, which, coming from lips fraught with eloquence, or uttered from a heart filled with truth, has affected our early fortunes and perhaps our life-long destiny? Who cannot look back upon some moment in life when the unconscious accents of another have withheld the foot which already pressed the verge of some frightful precipice? Who cannot recall, in bitter anguish of spirit, some hour when the "voice of the charmer" has won the soul to evil influences and late remorse? If such things come within the experience of each one of us (and that they do no one can doubt), may not every human being, however humble, feel awed before the simple power of human expression? Oh! it is a fearful thing to pour out one's soul in eloquent utterance! fearful, because it opens the inner sanctuary to the gaze of vulgar eyes; fearful, because its oracular voice is rarely interpreted aright; doubly fearful, because even its most truthful sayings may be of evil import to those who listen to its teachings.

"When the gifts of genius inspire those who know us not with the desire to love us, they are the richest blessings that Heaven can bestow upon human nature." This is a woman's sentiment, but it is one to which every gifted soul will respond. I once heard it asserted by one, who has but to look within himself to behold the richest elements of the good and grand most harmoniously commingled, that "there is something essentially feminine in the mental character of a man of genius, while there are also decidedly masculine traits in the intellectual developments of a gifted woman." The idea was at first startling, but it is undoubtedly true. The delicacy of perception, the refinement of thought, the tenderness of fancy which mark the man of genius, approach very nearly to the finest traits of womanly nature; while the vigor of thought and magnanimity of feeling which belong to an enlarged and occupied mind in the gentler sex, are certainly borrowed from the stronger nature of man. There is an assimilation between them, which, while it does not prove

the assertion that "there is no sex in genius," goes far to establish a theory and account for apparent incongruities. It is those very faculties, compelling each, as it were, to trench upon the privileges of the other, which involve and almost insure the social unhappiness of genius. How difficult it is for thought to fold its wings beside the household hearth, or brood with fostering care over the petty duties of life! How much more difficult for the delicate and sensitive nature to assert its manly strength, when every pulse is thrilling with refined emotion! Yet the diligent culture of the affections, the unselfish devotion to social duties, may and do preserve to each its true nature. Hence it is that while others seek for palpable and tangible rewards, the children of genius find so much to prize in the distant and far-off affection which their gifts awaken in loving and humble hearts.

What can impart more pure delight than the consciousness that we have given consolation to the wretched; that we have deepened the thrill of joy in the breast of the happy; that we have elevated the thoughts of an awakened mind, by the expression of unconscious sympathy? How many hearts, aching with excess of feeling, have found vent for their fulness in those exquisite lines of the poet of nature-those lines which contain an embodiment of all the romance, I had almost said of all the poetry, of life:

"Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met or never parted,

We had ne'er been broken-hearted."

How many have felt the wild surges of feeling heave with a calmer swell when they listened to the solemn music uttered by the great master of passion:

How many

"Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer!

Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of love!

Ave Maria! may our spirit dare

Look up to thine and to thy Son's, above?"

"nel tempo dei dolci sospiri," have echoed the strain of that passionate emotion which thrilled the heart of Petrarca when he exclaimed:

"Benedetto sia 'l giorno, e 'l mese, e 'l anno,
E la stagione, e 'l tempo, e l' ora, e 'l punto,
E'l bel paese, e 'l loco ov 'io fui giunto
Da duo begli occhi, che legato m' hanno."

How many, while listening to the voice of nature's great high priest, learn to love the gifted beings who have power to interpret the vague oracles of God within their souls; how many would fain utter in nobler language the sentiment which dictated this grateful burst of feeling to one of our country's greatest bards:

To W. C. B.

My thanks are thine, most gifted one! to thee

I owe an hour of intellectual life,

A sweet hour stolen from the noise, and strife,
And turmoil of the world, which, but to see,

Or hear of from afar, is pain to me.

I thank thee for the rich draught thou hast brought
To lips that love the well-springs of pure thought
Which from thy soul gush up so plenteously.
The hymnings of thy prophet voice awake

Those nobler impulses, that, hushed and still,
Lie hidden in our hearts, till some wild thrill
Of spirit-life has power their chains to break;

Then from our long, inglorious dream we start,

As if an angel's tone had stirred the slumbering heart.

It is true, such thanks may come from one whose "name is writ in water"-from a mind which is only endowed with power to enjoy a music it never can create; yet surely it is pleasant to feel that we have imparted pure and intellectual gratification to one of God's creatures, however humble; and that we have awakened, for one brief hour, the joy of inner life.

Well may such things be prized, for they are among the few earthly joys which cheer the heart of genius when the darkness of self-distrust gathers around him. The smile of Heaven may beam upon him with unfading brightness, but he must tread an earthly path, and dangers and sorrows beset him on every side. They who are his daily companions are those who see not into the inysteries of life. They weigh him in the balance of worldly prudence and he is found wanting; they watch his moods and bring them up in judgment against him, as if every variation of a sentiment was a deviation from a moral principle; they try him by tests from which even the enduring spirit of calculation would shrink; they stand afar off and then wonder that he is not of themselves; they seek to despise that which they may not comprehend, and they receive his teachings rather as the ravings of the Delphian Pythoness than as the solemn voice of a prophet. Weary and heart-sick, how often does he pause on his lonely way! how often does he faint in very heaviness of soul! how often does he long to fold his weary pinion in the still chamber of death!

Yet comfort is still for him. The multitude may know him not; the laurel may never wreathe his brow to guard it from the lightning which hallows even while it scathes; yet will his clarion voice be heard afar off, and while those pause to catch its tones who have never listened to his household words, it will echo widely through the dim shadow of the future. His thoughts will find a response in hearts that knew him not, and his memory will live, embalmed in sweetest fancies, when he shall have lain down like a weary child to sleep the dreamless sleep of death. His life will be one of fevered hope and chilling disappointment; he will ever grasp after some unattained delight, for it is in vain yearnings after the spiritual that men utter the hymn

ings of their noblest nature; he will wander unsatisfied through a world which seems green and beautiful beneath every foot save his; he will drink of many a Circean cup, but his thirst will be still unslaked, his joy still untasted!

But "coraggio e pazienza" must be written upon his heart and upon his banner. Life has only its transient joys and sorrows, while his course is still onward and upward. He may be of those whom the world knows not, but while he guards the sacred flame within his bosom, he is not forsaken of Him who gave that spark of celestial fire. In his journeying across the sands of worldly care, he is guided as were the Israelites of old. When the day-star beams on high and all around seems bright, his eye may see only a pillar of cloud; but when all earthly light has departed, then does it beam forth a heaven-sent flame to direct his steps to the better land!

Let him never forget that his gifts are not his own. "Is not this the great Babylon that I have built," was the arrogant thought of him who became as the beast of the field. Others may be endowed with the power of gathering the treasures of worldliness; wealth may fall to the lot of some; power may be the destiny of others; popular applause may follow the steps of others; but to him has been given a nobler faculty, and for a nobler aim. They are " of the earth, earthy;" in the providence of God all these his creatures are needed to fulfil their mission, and verily they have their reward. But thou, child of genius, art chosen for a higher purpose. It is thy privilege to guard the sacred shield on whose safety depends the welfare of thy fellow beings. Thou art chosen to watch over truth, to interpret the voice of conscience, to utter the oracles of love and wisdom. No selfish dream must fill thy fancy; the dark form of ambition must fling no shadow over the pure stream of thought within thy bosom.

The world may sneer at the nobleness of soul it cannot imitate; friends may rebuke the nature they cannot comprehend; even affection may be blind to the deep mysteries of a high and holy purpose of life; but still faint not thou! Like the fabled bird of Eden, it is only in upward flight that thy pinions give out their radiant hues of paradise; thou wert not meant to fold thy wing above thy weary heart and rest on earth.

To be poor in worldly goods, despised by the worldly wise, half dreaded by the worldly ambitious and only half loved by those on whom thy best affections have been poured forth; such is thy earthly destiny, O genius! Thou wilt give thyself out like incense to the wind, like music on the tempest. Yet rejoice thou in thy destiny. The incense may be borne afar off, but it will yet breathe sweetness upon some weary brow; the melody may