Miss Adams, and were communicated to a much esteemed friend of the deceased, at whose suggestion, I believe, she was induced to prepare the interesting memoir. The publication of them, I am sure, will be gratifying to the numerous friends of Miss Adams, and having been favored with a copy of them, I take the liberty, though without the knowledge of the author, to offer them for insertion in your miscellany.

Gentle, and true of heart!—I see thee still,
Abstractly bending o'er the storied tome,
While the deep lines of meditation steal
Unfrowning, o'er thy brow.-I see thee still,-
Thine eye upraised at Friendship's sacred smile.
Pouring the heart's warm treasures freely forth
In guileless confidence.-Methinks I hear
That eloquence which sometimes bore thy soul
High o'er its prison-house of timid thought,
And round the ancient people of thy God,
And on the Hill of Zion joy'd to bind

L. D.

Its choicest wreath.-Thy stainless life was laid
A gift on Virtue's altar,—and thy mind
Still mingling knowledge with humility,
Pass'd on its sheltered pilgrimage in peace.
Lonely,—but not forgot.—When thou didst mourn
One generation of thy friends laid low,

Behold, another came.-Fair, youthful forms,
Such as man's love doth worship in the hour
Of its idolatry, did turn aside,

And gather round thy feet, and strew thy cell
With offerings of fresh flowers.-'T was sweet to see
Beauty and grace and wealth, such tribute pay,
At wisdom's lowly shrine.

Yes they who mov'd

On the high places of the earth came down

To do thee honor, and to comfort thee

With an untiring ardor.-Say no more
That humble merit, fashionless and poor,
Hath none to draw it from its Upas-shade,
Guarding its welfare with unswerving zeal
Through the long vale of helplessness and age,
It is not so.--Thy grateful shade replies

It is not so.

Farewell.-Thy rest shall be

In such companionship, as thou hast lov'd,

Even from thy being's dawn,-pure breathing plants,
Soft melodies of waters and of trees,

'The brightest, holiest charms of earth and sky ;—
Nor yet unchronicled, or unbeloved

Of faithful memory shall be thy sleep
Meek worshipper of Nature and of God.
Hartford.

L. H. S.

THE VISIBLE AND THE INVISIBLE.

6

This is the title of an excellent article in a late number of the Monthly Repository. It is not,' says the Editor, a literal translation, but rather a near imitation of some beautiful thoughts by the Rev. S. Vincent, Pastor of the Protestant Church of Nismes (France) which were published in the periodical entitled 'Religion at Christianisme' edited by Mr. V. in conjunction with his co-pastor M. Fontanes.' It does one's heart good,' continues he to find our neighborland, in that land which, in a religious point of view, many are perhaps too apt to hold in contempt, such fervent, rational, earnest piety. The spirit of this periodical is really beyond all praise; its tone is gentle, humble, firm; it is full of well-considered and well-arranged truths. It is alike free from formality, and

from that disregard to early associations, which deals out unmeasured invectives against outward observ

ances.

Blessed are they who have not seen, and yet have believed.'— John xx. 29.

These words are and always must be true of the fact respecting which they were first spoken. We that now believe, and they who are to come after us, must, while we are here, walk by faith and not by sight; but, leaving the immediate question of Christianity for awhile, it is worth reflecting how vast a proportion of our noblest things is invisible. When we bring them before us, they seem so far to outweigh all we have seen or can see, that we may as emphatically say of them as did our Saviour of his own uprising from the dead, 'Blessed are they who have not seen, and yet have believed.'

senses.

We need reminding of this certain and remarkable truth, that, all our best things are objects of faith, rather than of sight. It is the character of our age to be proud of its spirit of investigation, and to submit all it can, and more than it ought, to the cognizance of the We need, occasionally, to ask the question of ourselves, what is the extent of the field which physical experience and the investigations of the senses, can of themselves open before us? By our senses we perceive colors, and forms, and some of their properties— their hardness and softness, their cold and heat, moisture or dryness, smells or tastes; we experience the pleasant or the disagreeable sensations they impart ; our own wants we perceive, our pleasures and our pains; beyond this we have not seen.'

We assist our sensations by the power of induction; immediately the field is widened--detached phenomena are arranged in their right order, more properties of objects are made known, and the laws of nature are in part revealed. We learn to anticipate in some degree to dispose, events-we distinguish-we increase our pleasures, and lessen our pains. The outward world, and the station in that world appointed for us to occupy, become familiar to us; by analogy we learn the most certain of all facts-that death will one day level us, as it levels all beside, with the dust.

us.

And this is the range of things visible;' and even here we have included much which is underived from sense-much to which sense alone could never guide There are the ideas of space and time, and cause and effect; who has ever beheld, or will behold them? Yet they interpret the elements, and classify the phenomena of nature; through them our senses speak intelligibly, and experience gives her lessons. How far are we now from having arrived at the end of our endowments? Might we not almost say that everything is to come? All that dignifies and ennobles human nature, all that makes us men, is indeed yet unspoken. And first there is THOUGHT, and all its various laws. Are they, though invisible, less certain than things visible? No, they gain as implicit an assent as any facts which our eyes can behold, or our fingers handle. The absurd in idea is as much an object of ridicule as the imperfect or erroneous in vision or in action. We believe in our own minds, we believe in the succession of ideas in the minds of others, but we neither have

seen nor can see them. They are revealed by language, but they have no resemblance, as far as we can tell, to any earthly thing of which our senses take cognizance; yet we believe. Take that wonderful conception, the belief, the consciousness-call it what you will-of the Infinite. It surrounds whatever fields of experience we have traversed, it is the gulph in which at last all our other conceptions are swallowed up. We add it to space, in order to form the idea of immensity-we transfer it to duration, to frame the thought of eternity-we add it to power, and intelligence, and goodness, and so make up the idea of a god. Have we beheld it?-have we received it through the medium of the eye, or held it in the hollow of our hands? Yet there it is, in the mind; the most central, deep, ineradicable of ideas. The learned may try to banish it from the province of the sciences, in vain; it was there before science had begun her work, it will be there when she has finished; not even the first elements of geometry can supersede it, for the object of geometry is space, and space, too, is infinite.

And the Beautiful-that everflowing spring of pure delights and lofty sentiments; can our idea of that be explained by the senses? We see it in nature; we frame the conception of it for ourselves; but it is not in color, it is not in forms, nor sounds, nor words; but rather in the connexion of all these things with a hidden spring of thought and feeling. The Beautiful is an invisible privilege of the spirit still more than a quality in surrounding objects.

And the emotions of Love-the devotion, the self