is possessed of a simple nature. The soul -the sun of life-the immortal fire stolen by the fabled Prometheus from heavenreascends to the sky. Animal life perhaps becomes an earthly vapour; and it is possible that it transmigrates into other bodies. The human body, when separated by dissolution from the soul and from animal life, is inert as the dust we tread upon; it may be termed the caput mortuum of the compound nature. whose primum mobile, though we cannot comprehend it, we call animal life, and whose greatest energy is instinct, which dictates one regular and unvaried series of action. Amongst brutes, every individual of a species has the same habitudes and pursuits, and, what it was at the creation, it remains at the present day. Progressive knowledge does not extend to them. Having only animal life, they are conscious of nothing beyond animal wants, and these they are able to supply by the direction of instinct. A brute may be said to be a compound of animal life and inert matter; but the elements of man are threefold-We must then deduce the fact of its siminert matter, animal life, and an immortal soul. The second of these it is, that unites the soul for a time with the material form. It in some degree approximates to the other two, and may be viewed as a medium between spirit and matter. When animal life ceases, the chain is broken; the body returns to its primitive state, and “the spirit | to Him who gave it." In the Mosaic account of the creation, it is said that God "breathed into man's nostrils the breath of life, and he became a living soul;" that is, in other words, an immortal soul. Human weakness, and the infirmities of our present nature, are quali- | ties of animal life, and from them proceeds a limitation of the soul's energies; for, whilst the body and soul are united, they must act upon and influence each other. How man, originally perfect, could fall, and by what means his degradation was effected, are not for us to say. Our attempt has been to place the soul by itself, in order to perceive some of its qualities that are perceptible to finite capacities, and this not as matter of curiosity, but for the purpose of ascertaining whether reason and revelation agree in establishing the certainty and character of a future life. 1. The nature of the soul is simple, spiritual, and unmixed, and therefore liable to no change. Things are either simple or compound. A simple nature has but one principle of action; but a compound nature has several. A simple nature cannot change either its physical essence or modification of being. Things that are compounded of various natures may be reduced into their simple substances by chemical art. But when they are perfectly analyzed, their elements cannot by any means be altered. Speaking analogically, we might say, that man is a substance compounded of three elements, and death might, not unaptly, be compared to the chemist's retort. When the three human elements are once separated, each | Nothing can be compound in which there are not distinct natures; and hence the soul would not be durable if it were compound. plicity, by shewing the absurdity of the converse. We have said, that the active energy of the soul is reason: now, if the soul be compound, that energy results from its combined natures, and partakes of the qualities of each distinct element found in it. And since simple natures alone are exempt from change, that energy would be liable to change. But true reason every one will surely acknowledge to be always the same, when employed in matters that come within its sphere of action, both in assenting to truths and denying fallacies that have been respectively assented to and denied by all. Simply to illustrate the position. No one will be found to contend, that objects increase as we recede from them, and lessen on our approach. Yet, if reason were variable, why should not some such persons be found? It will be said, that the slightest observation proves the converse; that the eye cannot be drawn into such an absurdity. Again, we ask, Why not? Is the eye capable of judging? Is it conscious of the nature and qualities of the objects it reflects? or does it refer the images of things to the mind or soul, where their qualities are determined by its energy-reason? If it do so refer them, and reason be variable, its decisions respecting them could not be always the same. But they are always the same. The soul is also immaterial. Material things undergo many varieties of shape, and changes of situation; their qualities are variable, and they are constantly increasing or diminishing, because they are ever acting on each other. Every thing in the material world is compounded of several simple elements, each of which has a nature peculiar to itself. It follows, then, that in material things there are opposite natures, and as these cannot unite, they must act upon each other, and be constantly effecting changes of form, situation, quality, and quantity, in material objec** And as there is nothing in the world of matter possessed of a simple nature, or, if so, that is exempt from the superaction of other natures upon it, no part of the material creation is durable. But the soul is simple, and by consequence durable, and therefore immaterial. 2. The expectations of the soul are high and lofty, unconnected with the objects of sense, and seeking something infinitely beyond them. The things of sense afford no permanent gratification to the mind. For a time it may be diverted in the pursuit; but when it has overtaken, and should repose in the enjoyment of them, they are found to fall so far short of the idea which had been formed, that they are invariably cast aside almost as soon as they are obtained. Disgusted with these, the mind is directed to fresh objects, equally illusive at a distance, and unsatisfying when possessed. Indeed, it is not difficult to conceive that it should be so. That the mind or soul is superior to, and acts upon, the body, will be admitted; and it must be as readily conceded, that, in a union of natures, the strongest will prevail. The soul of man is incapable of change in itself, and it looks forward to a higher order of existence, and to scenes of permanent beauty. It has hopes of enjoyments in another world, which, though indistinctly conceived, are yet sufficiently defined to distinguish them from any gratification which earthly objects are calculated to afford. It places the highest good in virtue, and contemplates with firm assurance the guiltless delights and employments of eternity. With such expectations, it is impossible that the soul can derive perfect enjoyment from earth; and therefore it is evident that the present life is not the ultimate purpose for which it was created. For can we suppose that these good desires were implanted merely to prevent our enjoyment of earthly pleasures?-A Being infinite in wisdom and mercy would not have endowed his creatures with such high hopes, that render all the delights of time and sense poor and unsatisfying, if he had not prepared for them a state of being where these hopes will be realized, and to which their present existence is preparatory. Observe the soul ascending from one branch of knowledge to another, continually approaching towards perfection, without ever arriving at it. Witness its dissolution from the body at the moment when it has risen to this infancy of being. Consider the hopes that it has cherished of an here after, and the nature of the enjoyments to which its attention has been directed; see it clinging more firmly to these hopes as the world of sense recedes from its eye; and then say, whether they are such ideas as befit rational creatures to entertain, and if THE BOOK that inculcates them be true? October 8th, 1826. ZELIM. ON THE INSTABILITY OF POPULAR APPLAUSE. "Tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis." BELONGING to that class of persons who acknowledge the instability of every thing of a terrestrial nature, I have at various times amused myself with speculations on the subject. The fickleness of fortune, of grandeur, of friendship, has often interested me; but, of all the uncertain things in this uncertain world, no one has ever more forcibly struck me than the instability of popular applause. By popular applause, I mean that feeling of favour or inclination which is frequently raised in the public mind towards any particular individuals among men. As this only affects those, whose occupation, profession, or talents, call them into situations of public notoriety, it is far from being universal in its application. Sufficiently numerous, however, are the instances thereof, to constitute it a common occurrence among mankind. When we consider the varied and fickle dispositions of the human race, we cannot feel much surprise that popular applause is uncertain, and subject to so many variations. The mind of man is constitutionally so unsettled and capricious, and his "nature," as Pliny rightly affirms, so "fond of novelty," that a constant monotony of favour seems almost more than he is capable of affording to any one of his species. The daily occurrences of life have an influence upon man which is difficult to be controlled, the effects of which are frequently sudden and peculiar. The man who enjoys the favour of the people in one hour, cannot insure it for the next; and he who now shines with sun-like effulgence, is in momentary danger of being obscured by the interposition of some unwelcome object. Popular applause, however captivating it may appear, is in itself dangerous, and inimical to the comforts and pleasures of life, and often involves its subjects in situations far from enviable. "I pity the man," said a venerable minister, "who is popular; I was so myself:" and certainly, if popularity depends upon the "changing | situated a mountain of great height, or rapassions" which alternately "rise and fall," ther a number of mountains, overtopped under such circumstances, pity may be well by one more attractive and beautiful than exercised. the rest, and which suggested to me emotions of enthusiasm and delight, not usually experienced upon such occasions. The plain was filled with multitudes of people, of all ranks and conditions, who appeared to be eagerly employed in some occupation or another. The face of the mountain was picturesque and diversified, covered with individuals striving to reach its summit; and though it was difficult of ascent, and they were uncertain what would be their fate on attaining the object of their wishes, very few of them were deterred from the attempt. Eloquens was a man of talent; his imagination was bold and vigorous; his ideas were novel and peculiar; his attitude was commanding; in short, he was an orator. On his first appearance in a pulpit of the metropolis, his celebrity was unbounded: multitudes from all quarters hastened to hear his eloquence; and was the magnet which attracted all. For a time, scarcely any one was thought of, scarcely any one talked of, but Eloquens: it was a common interrogation, on meeting a friend, "Have you been to -?" and if a negative reply was given, the powers of persuasion would be employed on the occasion. Pamphlets were written, and speculations formed, on the subject; in fine, he was the unfortunate victim of popular applause. In a few months, the flame began to decrease; the heat became gradually less intense; and at last, Eloquens left the skies, whither he had been for some time soaring, and resumed his wonted situation in the ordinary walk of public life. No kind of popular applause is more precarious than that which depends upon the common people; because men of this class are so guided by self-will and selfgratification, that they do not weigh the claims of those to whom popular feeling is, or ought to be, exercised with impartiality and truth. They are not, neither do they profess to be, guided by reason; they veer about like the wind, and possess all the mutable powers of the chameleon. The slightest circumstance, if it seems in the least to infringe on their rights, or to affect their notions and feelings, is sufficient to bias them, and whether it be genuine, or only ideal, is of little importance with them. Popular applause, notwithstanding its instability and attendant disadvantages, has fascinating allurements: it is a golden image, to which many voluntarily resort, and few comparatively are those who will not "fall down and worship it." It is a fancied reward, to which talents emulate and aspire, but which, when obtained, is frequently found to be less valuable than was fondly anticipated. Ruminating on the observations I had written on the subject, and becoming deeply absorbed in thought, the following scene was pictured to my imagination, which I take the liberty of presenting to the reader. I fancied myself placed in an extensive open space, in the midst of which was It was really amusing to witness the toils of these up-hill travellers: sometimes a few were to be seen at the top of one of the minor mountains, and when this was the case, a smile flushed upon their faces, and a shout was raised by the multitudes below, which was always proportioned to the height they ascended. Some I observed, who were enabled to proceed on but slowly, continually stumbled and fell; on which they were assailed by the jeers and hisses of the attendant assembly; while others pursued their way with considerable alacrity. Now and then a band might be seen to have reached the "mountain's top," and then the reiterated shouts of the people below were almost deafening. There was a circumstance, however, with which I could not avoid being particularly struck, namely, that on the arrival of the candidates, they seemed to be illumined by the rays of glory which shone around them, so as almost to dazzle the beholder's sight; yet not many of them were to be seen for any length of time, as they all (a few excepted) disappeared soon after they had attained the object of their toil. One man I saw, who had scarcely reached the top, when, becoming dizzy, he "toppled down headlong" with much vehemence, and was shortly after seen extended below. On inquiring of a bystander, what became of those who continually disappeared, he he told me, that on the summit of the mountain there was a deep pit, called the gulf of Oblivion, and that, owing either to their own heedlessness, or to the neglect which the people mostly shewed them after their first momentary though excessive applause, they became so affected as to lose all command of themselves, and were precipitated into the dreadful chasm which opened before them. Surely, thought I to myself, this can be no other than Popular Applause, that phan tom of the brain, that ignis fatuus, with which we are so often amused. Who cannot but wonder at the extreme enthusiasm which affects those who aspire after this transitory glory? and who cannot but contemn that spirit of the people by which they are allured? Nothing can exceed the favour the people shew when their deluded victims first reach the summit of the dangerous mount; but just as they think they have begun to experience the reward of their labours, that upon which their situation depends is unexpectedly and irrecoverably withdrawn. Oh! inconstant mind of man! Oh! deluding spirit! uttered I with much warmth, may I never be one of your victims-may I never become dependent upon --. Here something within me seemed to refuse assent to what I was about to exclaim; for, as I again cast my eyes upon the beautiful mount, and beheld several of the aspirants after glory obtain the gratification of their wishes, I felt a voluntary and enthusiastic desire to become a candidate, and advanced towards the base of the mountain, intending to begin my ascent; but the shouts of the people, on the occasion just mentioned, seemed to be so loud and general, that I was immediately aroused from my ideal vision, which put an end at once to my suddenly undertaken journey, and with it to my reflections on the subject. Bristol, Aug. 26, 1826. POETRY. J. S. B. Jun. (For the Imperial Magazine.) CHRISTMAS DAY, 1826. "O festus dies hominis "-Terence. Is this the day when earth was made, Was first bestud with gems, When suns and moons began to shine, Is this the day when favour'd man Was fashion'd from the clod; Or vanquish'd nations sink away, Shone with unclouded ray- Aud Heaven's avenging rod: The thunderbolt was nearly hurl'd, But mercy pleaded for the world. Then came the Saviour, full of love, Down from his glorious throne, In those immortal realms above; For sinners to atone, And raise (oh, where such love as this!) He came but not with pomp of earth, And now, reseated on his throne, He pleads for whom he died: Let every mortal own his sway, FRIEND OF MY EARLY HOURS. FRIEND of my early hours, whose cheerful voice, Has often made my trembling heart rejoice, Mid woes alarming: When gloomy cares o'erpower'd my fainting soul, Th' o'erwhelming grief would yield to thy control, Sweet force of sympathetic love, for ever Days of delight, the pleasures now are fled, To me 'twas bliss thy company to share, Or for some favourite author light the bril- In cheerful hymns, or joyous songs of praise, Anxious to snatch a moment's bliss, to raise The sounds symphonious; In heavenly raptures join the hosts divine, None but a seraph's voice could equal thine In melody of sound, and melting strains harmonious. LAST STANZAS. YET once again I strike my lyre, G. HERRING. And once again I ope my breast, And bid a melody aspire, With more than ever tongue exprest. For, ah! of every joy bereft, But that which prayer and tears impart; Lov'd, as the pictures of my bliss, And statues that adorn the dead; How much of youth-of life is fled! And yet we love to think and gaze Upon the soul which marble gives, And could imagine, in amaze, That all the past revives and lives! Affection feels a moment's charms, And, gladly, reason lulls to rest; But whilst the sweet illusion warms The softest feelings of the breast, Unalter'd Truth, with cloudless beams, Shines on the vision which appears, And, as around her radiance streams, We see a cause for other tears: For then we learn 'twas but a dream, And then again we learn to weep, And thus, ah me! how it would seem That sorrow's eyes no more must sleep! Reviewing days for ever past, Their beauties, like the iris, dim; My mind-my sky is overcast; In Nature's showers my feelings swim. 'Tis so, alas! this solemn hour, In loosing what the heart clings near; A MOONLIGHT REVERIE. LINES ILLUSTRATIVE OF A PICTURE, BY R.W.W. [We may suppose these lines to be spoken by the subject of the Picture;-a contemplative lad, sitting beneath an elm tree, amid woodland scenery, gazing upward on the rich starlight, and the moon flinging off her cloudy garments, and "walking in bright ness."] HIST! all is solemn stillness round, Concealing heaven from mortal eye! Hush'd into silence, Nature doth hear, Then methinks the fairies came wandering by, Chanting in chorus mellifluently, "Come, tiny sisters! come, Away and away to our breezy home! We have myriad miles to fly on the wind, Our path, neither sunlight, nor starlight shall find! Float each in your car of soft moonbeam, I suddenly woke, and look'd on high, Q. Q. Q. |