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65. Resistance to a much-abused Power.

Duke of Cornwall. I HAVE fixed upon the day after tomorrow for your wedding, and, though I own the time is somewhat short to make preparations, you must be satisfied to have your wedding clothes after your marriage, instead of before, which I should think need not make much difference. So now, all you'll have to do will be to tell your cousin ; and the day after to-morrow your name will be Montagu.

Rosabella. And do you know of whom you are disposing so unceremoniously?

Duke of C. Of whom I am disposing? Why, niece, to be sure. You are my niece, are you not?

of

my

Rosa. Yes, unfortunately, I am your niece; and I blush for an uncle who does not scruple to abuse so barbarously the last legacy bequeathed to him by an unfortunate brother. Yes, my lord duke, I am your niece-your protégée — your dependant. I am not ashamed to own that I owe my daily bread to your bounty. But, notwithstanding all this, I am not aware that I am your slave, nor do I think the pecuniary obligations I am under to you sufficient to give you the right of disposing of me as an article of furniture, or a beast of burden. No, my lord; on other matters I hold myself bound implicitly to obey your authority; but on this -the disposal of my person, and, consequently, my affections I alone am competent to judge, and I alone must decide.

66. Evening.

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'Twas evening now, - the hour of toil was o'er,
Yet still they durst not seek the fearful shore,
Lest watchful Indian crew should silent creep,

And spring upon and murder them in sleep;

So through the livelong night they held their way;
And 'twas a night might shame the fairest day -
So still, so bright, so tranquil was its reign,
They cared not though the day ne'er came again;
The moon high wheeled the distant hills above,
Silvered the fleecy foliage of the grove,

That, as the wooing Zephyr on it fell,
Whispered it loved the gentle visit well:
That fair-faced orb alone to move appeared,
That zephyr was the only sound they heard;
No deep-mouthed hound the hunter's haunt betrayed,
No lights upon the shore or waters played,
No loud laugh broke upon the silent air,
To tell the wanderers man was nestling there,
While even the froward babe in mother's arms,
Lulled by the scene, suppressed its loud alarms,
And, yielding to that moment's tranquil sway,
Sunk on the breast, and slept its rage away.
All, all was still on gliding bark and shore,
As if the earth now slept to wake no more;
Life seemed extinct, as when the world first smiled,
Ere Adam breathed, when Eden was a wild.

67. Self-Culture.

SELF-CULTURE is something possible. It is not a dream It has foundations in our nature. Without this conviction, the speaker will but declaim, and the hearer listen, without profit. There are two powers of the human soul which make self-culture possible the self-searching and the selfforming power. We have first the faculty of turning the mind on itself; of recalling its past and watching its present operations; of learning its various capacities and susceptibilities, what it can do and bear, what it can enjoy and

suffer; and of thus learning in general what our nature is, and what it is made for.

It is worthy of observation, that we are able to discern not only what we already are, but what we may become; to see in ourselves germs and promises of a growth to which no bounds can be set; and that by using the powers which God has given to us, we can dart beyond what we have actually gained. It is by this self-comprehending power that we are distinguished from the brutes, which give no signs of looking into themselves. Without this there would be no self-culture, for we should not know the work to be done; and one reason why self-culture is so little proposed is, that so few penetrate into their own nature. To most men, their own spirits are shadowy, unreal, compared with what is outward.

When they happen to cast a glance inward, they see only a dark, vague chaos. They distinguish, perhaps, some violent passion, which has driven them to injurious excess; but their highest powers hardly attract a thought; and thus multitudes live and die as truly strangers to themselves, as to countries of which they have heard the name, but which human foot has never trodden.

But self-culture is possible, not only because we can enter into and search ourselves, we have a still nobler power, that of acting on, determining, and forming ourselves. This is a fearful as well as glorious endowment, for it is the ground of human responsibility. We have the power not only of tracing our powers, but of guiding and impelling them; not only of watching our passions, but of controlling them; not only of seeing our faculties grow, but of applying to them means and influences to aid their growth.

We can stay or change the current of thought. We can concentrate the intellect on objects which we wish to comprehend. We can fix our eyes on perfection, and make almost every thing speed us towards it. This is indeed a noble prerogative of our nature. Possessing this, it matters little what or where we are now, for we can conquer a better lot, and even be happier for starting from the lowest point

Of all the discoveries which men need to make, the most important, at the present moment, is that of the self-forming power treasured up in themselves. They little suspect its extent as little as the savage apprehends the energy which the mind is created to exert on the material world. It transcends in importance all our power over outward nature. There is more divinity in it than in the force which impels the outward universe; and yet how little we comprehend it! How it slumbers in most men unsuspected, unused! This makes self-culture possible, and binds it on us as a solemn duty.

68. The Same, continued.

I WILL first unfold the idea of self-culture; and this, in its most general form, may easily be seized. To cultivate any thing, be it a plant, an animal, a mind, is to make it grow. Growth, expansion, is the end. Nothing admits culture but that which has a principle of life, capable of being expanded. He, therefore, who does what he can to unfold all his powers and capacities, especially his nobler ones, so as to become a well-proportioned, vigorous, excellent, happy being, practises self-culture.

This culture, of course, has various branches, corresponding to the different capacities of human nature; but though various, they are intimately united, and make progress together. The soul, which our philosophy divides into various capacities, is still one essence, one life; and it exerts at the same moment, and blends in the same act, its various energies of thought, feeling, and volition.

Accordingly, in a wise self-culture, all the principles of our nature grow at once by joint, harmonious action, just as all parts of the plant are unfolded together. When, therefore, you hear of different branches of self-improvement, you will

not think of them as distinct processes going on independently of each other, and requiring each its own separate means. Still a distinct consideration of these is needed to a full comprehension of the subject.

Self-culture is moral, a branch of singular importance. When a man looks into himself, he discovers two distinct orders or kinds of principles, which it behoves him especially to comprehend. He discovers desires, appetites, passions, which terminate in himself, which crave and seek his own interest, gratification, distinction; and he discovers another principle, in opposition to these, which is impartial, disinterested, universal, enjoining on him a regard to the rights and happiness of other beings, and laying on him obligations which must be discharged, cost what they may, or however they may clash with his particular pleasure or gain.

No man, however narrowed to his own interest, however hardened by selfishness, can deny, that there springs up within him a great idea, in opposition to interest the idea of

duty; that an inward voice calls him, more or less distinctly, to revere and exercise impartial justice and universal goodwill. This disinterested principle in human nature we call sometimes reason, sometimes conscience, sometimes the moral sense or faculty.

But, be its name what it may, it is a real principle in each of us, and it is the supreme power within us, to be cultivated above all others; for on its culture the right development of all others depends. The passions, indeed, may be stronger than the conscience- may lift up a louder voice; but their clamor differs wholly from the tone of command in which the conscience speaks. They are not clothed with its authority, its binding power. In their very triumphs they are rebuked by the moral principle, and often cower before its still, deep, menacing voice.

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No part of self-knowledge is more important than to discern clearly these two great principles the self-seeking and the disinterested; and the most important part of self-culture is to depress the former and to exalt the latter, or to en

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