wider dissemination of existing knowledge. The crying want of society, morally and intellectually considered, is, not for any striking discoveries from individuals, but that the multitude should be raised up to the same attainments which well instructed individuals already possess, and which have been possessed by a scattered few in almost every period of recorded time. Let us infuse into the community at large, precisely the faith and the morals which have been formerly professed and practised by a small and disconnected company, and we may look on all indefinite schemes and visions with indifference. What greater thing could come to pass, than that all men should be made as rationally pious and practically religious as was Locke, for instance, to say nothing of his less attainable characteristics? Yet all that would be new in this case would be the universal conformity to a known exemplar. Let us try to lift up as many of our fellow beings as we can to this, or any other exalted moral standard. Here is the sphere of our worthiest labors. Here is the task which may gloriously employ the powers of the most gifted and accomplished minds. The happiness of the world is to be expected from the liberal communication of sentiments, views, principles, and motives, which are already in the world. The path of duty is right onwards; and it must conduct to successively higher stages of improvement, so long as it is honestly and steadily pursued. There is much before our very eyes, and within the compass of our plain ability, which needs to be altered, perfected, or destroyed. What are the best ways of securing these visible objects and advantages? We must search for them. This is a part of the labor; and in this respect, we allow, there is an urgent and almost constant call for invention; but the invention of means and not of ends; the finding out how that which is already invented, may be made common and useful; how prejudices, which have long been under suspicion and displeasure, may be safely banished from the realms of faith; how old knowledge may be most easily, acceptably, and beneficially introduced to the young mind; how the best principles may be made the predominant ones; how the practice of that which is received, may lead to the establishment of that which is hoped for.

Thus the objects of effort and invention come plainly and bodily into our presence, and appear in a practicable position and form. We are no longer misled by fancies and dreams, either our own, or other men's; theory submits to the ordeal of

proof; and the genuineness of improvement is confirmed by the signature and seal of experience.

Diffusion and dissemination, therefore, are the great designs of the age. Invention is their servant and minister. It is no vain show which is in progress. The gold of the treasury must be yet more widely thrown out among the crowd. The heaps of the granary must be yet more generously distributed among the dwellings of the poor. The time has come, when men must have the truth, and the whole truth; and they ought to have it. The old notion, that there may be one belief for the multitude, and another for the initiated, now seems to be more glaringly false and empty than ever, and should be indignantly dismissed by every honest man. One simple, serious conviction should take its forfeited place, and be the counsellor of all our exertions; the conviction that whatever is most reasonable and proper should be attempted and carried through, without even asking the question whether it is new or whether it is old, whether it makes its appearance for the first time to day, or whether it has been acknowledged through a long line of generations. We must look steadily to that which is right, and then we shall no more despise what is old, in a temper of hasty vanity, nor be haunted by the fear of what is new, which, of all fears, is the most unworthy of a mind which pretends to be free, or desires to be just.

It will be readily perceived from the tenor of the foregoing observations, that we have no objection whatever to originality and boldness, or to anything which wears a feature of improvement. It will also be perceived that our impressions of human life and human nature are such, that we place little confidence in extravagant anticipations, and give little respect to mystical and cloudy revelations of the future.

It is not, therefore, against any novelties which there may be in Mr Reed's pamphlet on the Growth of the Mind, but against its indefiniteness and mysticism that we shall lay our charges. We honor the apparent purity of its purpose, the spirituality and the independence of its character. We admire the force and beauty of much of its imagery; we are pleased with the general peculiarity of its style, which sometimes throws an air of originality over the thought which it dresses. But if he intended it to inform and instruct the public mind, or even to accompany the progress of the present time, we cannot doubt that in these respects he will be disappointed; among the number

who will seriously attempt to understand it throughout, there will be few who will succeed.

For ourselves, we found it a difficult matter to get through the fortyfour pages of this work, within double the time which we usually bestow on the same quantity of words. We do not suspect the author of intentional obscurity, but we doubt whether, if he had tried, he could have wrapped up his meaning in a thicker mantle of darkness than that which now invests it. This arises in part from what seems to be the mysticism of a peculiar religious faith. It arises in part also, from the want of a visible connexion between the several propositions of the work. There is no regular succession of clearly defined steps, leading the reader to a firm conclusion. Thought follows thought, and image treads hard upon image, like a hastily assembled crowd, who keep in motion, but without precisely knowing the quarter to which they should go. The author, indeed, proposes to himself an object, but if he keeps it in his own view, it is more than we were able to do, for we often lost sight of it entirely.

'It is the object,' he says,' of the following pages, not to be influenced by views of a temporal or local nature, but to look at the mind as far as possible in its essential revealed character, and beginning with its powers of acquiring and retaining truth, to trace summarily that developement which is required, in order to render it truly useful and happy.' p. 6.

This is sufficiently distinct, and prepares us to expect something like regularity and a lucid order; instead of which we are presented with a set of deep metaphysical discussions, almost every one of which might stand by itself as an independent essay, and almost any one of which, as it seems to us, might be struck out, without being missed. The first dissertation is on memory. With a part of this we were quite favorably impressed; for it is intelligible and true. It concerns the connexion between the memory and the affections.

There is the most intimate connexion of the memory with the affections. This connexion is obvious from many familiar expressions; such as, remember me to any one, by which is signified a desire to be borne in his or her affections-do not forget me, by which is meant do not cease to love me get by heart, which means commit to memory. It is also obvious from observation of our own minds; from the constant recurrence of those subjects which we most love, and the extreme difficulty of detaching our

own minds or the minds of others from a favorite pursuit. It is obvious from the power of attention on which the memory principally depends, which if the subject have a place in our affections requires no effort; if it have not, the effort consists principally in giving it a real or an artificial hold of our feelings, as it is possible if we do not love a subject, to attend to it because it may add to our fame or our wealth. It is obvious from the never fading freshness retained by the scenes of childhood, when the feelings are strong and vivid, through the later periods of life. As the old man looks back on the road of his pilgrimage, many years of active life lie unseen in the valley, as his eye rests on the rising ground of his younger days.' pp. 6, 7.

The second dissertation is on time. 'What is time?' Mr Reed asks twice; and after a deal of refinement and subtilty, he answers that it is nothing at all. 'Out upon time!' exclaims Lord Byron, in a passage which some of our English brethren think very fine; Out upon time,' he repeats; and Mr Reed has taken him at his word. Father Time is severely handled; his scythe is snapt; his hour glass is broken; and he himself is banished. In the course of this process, we were first carried back in imagination to those pleasant academic scenes, in which we were accustomed, in affirmative and negative array, to prove our youthful powers on that venerable personage, and his old brother, Space. At length we grew bewildered. We saw Time fold up his wings. Our grandfathers were our brethren; we became in our dream contemporary with the patriarchs, and shook hands with Adam, and touched our hat to the last man. when we came to ourselves, we were forcibly struck with the justice, in this case at least, of the Scotchman's definition of metaphysics. 'Metaphysics,' said the shrewd Northerner, ‘is twa men talkin' thegither. He that's listenin' does na ken what he that's talkin' means, and he that's talkin' does na ken what he means himsel.'

But

Seriously; if Mr Reed intends to be useful, and that he does so intend we have no doubt, he must be more perspicuous and intelligible in what he writes for the public. Whatever is, or is to be the growth of the mind,' he must accommodate himself better to its present state, for we apprehend that it is not yet able to profit by his disquisitions on its powers. We are anxious that he should take our advice, because he appears to have that within him, which, if properly directed, might exert a strong and healthful influence on others. The following passages, though

tinged with the prevailing mysticism of the piece, are eloquent and beautiful.

"The natural world was precisely and perfectly adapted to invig orate and strengthen the intellectual and moral man. Its first and highest use was not to support the vegetables which adorn, or the animals which cover its surface; nor yet to give sustenance to the human body—it has a higher and holier object, in the attainment of which these are only means. It was intended to draw forth and mature the latent energies of the soul; to impart to them its own verdure and freshness; to initiate them into its own mysteries; and by its silent and humble dependence on its creator, to leave on them when it is withdrawn by death, the full impression of his likeness.

'It was the design of Providence, that the infant mind should possess the germ of every science. If it were not so, they could hardly be learned. The care of God provides for the flower of the field, a place wherein it may grow, regale with its fragrance, and delight with its beauty. Is his providence less active over those, to whom this flower offers its incense? No. The soil which produces the vine in its most healthy luxuriance, is not better adapted to the end, than the world we inhabit to draw forth the latent energies of the soul, and fill them with life and vigor. As well might the eye see without light, or the ear hear without sound, as the human mind be healthy and athletic, without descending into the natural world, and breathing the mountain air. Is there aught in eloquence, which warms the heart? She draws her fire from natural imagery. Is there aught in poetry to enliven the imagination? There is the secret of all her power. Is there aught in science to add strength and dignity to the human mind? The natural world is only the body, of which she is the soul. In books, science is presented to the eye of the pupil, as it were in a dried and preserved state; the time may come when the instructer will take him by the hand, and lead him by the running streams, and teach him all the principles of science as she comes from her maker, as he would smell the fragrance of the rose without gathering it.' pp. 19, 20.

But what can be more irrelevant to the author's subject, what can be more unnecessary and useless, than the tilt which he soon after runs against rhyme.

It may be peculiar, and is said with deference to the opinions of others, but to my ear, rhymes add nothing to poetry, but rather detract from its beauty. They possess too strongly the marks of art, and produce a sameness which tires, and sometimes disgusts.