will may be called free, though impelled—that is, not opposed, but attracted.

Air is necessary to the support of my life, but I breathe it voluntarily. I am obliged to breathe it, and yet I do not feel the compulsion.

And

When my eyes are open, I see: I am compelled to do so. yet, I see willingly. I do not feel a necessity; but there is one, notwithstanding.

My fingers feel the qualities of a substance on which they are placed. I cannot help feeling with them; but my will goes with the necessity, and I feel voluntarily, though I am obliged to do so. So with all I think, or know, or do.

CHAPTER XIV.

SUMMING-UP OF THIS SECTION.

The result which we have obtained then, in this

paper, is:

I. That a destiny is appointed to man; that his thoughts and acts are the producers of his destiny; and, therefore, that his thoughts and acts must be ordained.

II. That a destiny of ultimate happiness is ordained for man; that man being a weak and erring creature, would cause himself misery were his determinations uncontrolled; therefore he must necessarily be under guidance, and not free.

III. That man, being a creature, cannot be independent; and therefore that he cannot be self-determining.

IV. That consciousness and experience prove that the will is operated upon, influenced, and caused.

V. That if the will is free, it must be uncreated; and that as nothing but the Deity can be uncreated, the will cannot be free.

VI. That the doctrine of neccesity by no means contradicts, but strictly agrees with our consciousness of voluntary agency.

SONGS OF THE COLOURS, No. 4.-GREEN.

To the steps of my sire, the halls of fire

In the golden sun oft rang,

And the azure caves of the echoing waves
Are her home from whom I sprang.

The dazzling, bright, white, flashing light,
That danced to earth with morn

On a grassy glade, 'neath the gold-green shade
Of bright leaves, saw me born.

Neither do I in the blue sea or sky,

Nor yet in the sun's orb dwell,

Nor on winged clouds roam, but my lowly home
Green earth, I love as well.

Oh, sweet 'tis to rest on its emerald breast,

Couched in the long warm grass,

Which soft winds, on high sporting murmuring by,
Tread into waves as they pass.

When Frost is dead, and winter has fled

Afar to the snow-white North,

When o'er fields and streams the sun's warm beams

With joy come wandering forth,

When the pattering hail and icy gale

No more can o'er them sweep,

The laughing hours call forth the flowers,

They wake from their wint'ry sleep. "Tis then I unveil the snow-drop pale, And many a flower unrobe,

The tulip I hide no longer, and wide
It flings its gorgeous globe,

And every day I roll away

From blossoms on flower and tree

The garments that warm from the blasting storm, And Frost had kept them free.

And earth's green floor is quick strewn o'er

With every gorgeous dye,

That the all-hued bow of the storm can show,
When it spans the deep blue sky.

When soft winds wing their way to earth, Spring
Rejoicing o'er me flings

Rich rainbow showers of bright young flowers
Of every hue she brings ;

The azure bells of the moorland fells,

The golden stars so pale

Of the fair primrose, each flower that blows
My form in beauty veil.

The call I hear of the youthful year,

And on the emerald trees,

'Mid their leaves of green, rejoicing I'm seen
At play with the wandering breeze.

I bathe and play in the ocean of day.
And float rejoicing over

It's floods of light that o'erwhelm the night,
And the stars with their bright waves cover.

The haunts I love best are the woods of the West,
That shadowed earth when 'twas young,
That have seen years fled and ages long dead
Come wandering their dark trunks among,
Where shadows hide from the hot noon-tide,

And shrink from the freezing blast,

'Neath leaf-clad forms that have heard the storms Of a thousand years howl past,

Where the giant oak fears not the stroke

Of man, but bows its head

With the tall pines and all of the forest that fall

Beneath the hurricane's tread,

When roaring it leap from its fitful sleep,

And shrieking before the wind

Fear trembling flies, while, with downcast eyes,

Desolation weeps behind,

Where the wild winds flee o'er a leafy sea

Unbounded by a shore,

While waves as they pass, like the emerald grass,

Rise, dancing its surface o'er,

Where, sprung from earth's womb, of all things the tomb,
With the moss of ages o'ergrown,

Dark, countless trunks stand, rear'd by nature's hand,

Like mortal-wrought columns of stone,

And boughs weave o'er earth's turf-paved floor

A fretted arched roof on high,

"Till flowers for a sight of the sweet white light

Hid from them pine and die.

And scarcely one bright beam of the sun
Lights up the Forest's glades,

Or one white gleam of the moon can stream
Through its aisles and dim arcades,

Through the awful shades of whose colonades
Roams silence, pausing in fear,

The long-drawn howl of the wolves that prowl
On the buffalo's trail to hear,

Or the deep low groan, the pain-filled moan,
That the lofty pines sigh forth,

When the storm sweeps by and rends on high
Their branches in its wrath,

Where from each tree speaks piety,

In words which have no sound,
And the leaves bedew with thought all who
Tread that still, haunted ground,
Where a voiceless call to prayer by all

Is heard. Who the woods hath trod,
Nor struck with awe would bow before
The Forests' maker God?

'Mid the feverish strife of crowded life,
The city's busy hum,

Where life for gold, to toil, is sold,

Deep thoughts but seldom come.

Man swelling stands where his feeble hands

Have reared piles for decay,

And mortals shrink 'mid their works to think

They are but frail things of clay;

But vain man place, where, face to face,

Wild Nature he may see,

In the solitudes of the ancient woods

Alone let the boaster be,

And in that hour, awed by his power

Whose word yon fair worlds made,
Man, proud no more, shall God adore
Beneath the Forest's shade.

W. C. B.

ODD LEAVES FROM AN ODD MAN'S NOTE-BOOK.—No. 5.

CHAPTER XV.

THE ODD MAN SPEAKS OF WOMEN.

THE time is not very long gone by when it was gravely questioned, whether Woman had a soul at all? and we are but little in advance of the notion even now-for we have decided that she has a soul, but we will not allow her to develope or to use it. We say to her, "Madam, there is no doubt whatever that you are a delightful being, that you are destined to play a most important part in the Drama of Humanity, and that you have a soul to be saved or lost; but you must excuse

us for informing you, that you shall do nothing but make our toast, mend our hose, and nurse our children: for to tell you the truthwithout being rude-your mental capacity is unequal to higher duties."

O, Man,-thou vain and short-sighted braggart! what lying spirit hath inspired thee to speak such folly? Look around thee! Mark well-if thine eye is not so blinded that thou canst not perceive-Woman's stupendous power. See how she rules the World's heart-how she purifies it-ennobles it-angelizes it.Let history-let thine own experience-tell thee of her heroical devotion, her sublime charity, her undying affection, her pure and holy faith. Let the records of the world inform thee that Woman has alone remained true to the universal laws of love and nature that the only two sentiments unimpaired by timereligious impression and maternal love-have been preserved by her alone and when thou hast sufficiently contemplated Woman's worth, then turn thee and ponder on Man's baseness. Reckon up his acts of cruelty. Recount what he has done to degrade her. Think on the opiates he has given to her soul to keep it in its sleep of darkness. See how by his wicked selfishness he has succeeded in detaching Love from Marriage-in keeping asunder the two great half-souls of the world; and when thine eyes are fully opened, and thou seest thy wickedness and her injuries, then let a blush of shame suffuse thy cheek, and a thrill of mighty regret and repentance move thy heart.

We may be assured of this,-that the more Man degrades Woman, the more he himself will be degraded. It has been always so. When he has made her his idol, he has become a superstitious and blind fanatic. When he has made her his courtezan, he has become a selfish and grovelling brute. When he has made her his mere servant, he has become himself a slave. When he has denied her a soul, he himself has become clouded with mental darkness. When he has changed true love into brutal passion, he has retrograded from civilization. When he has denied her equality, he has lost his own happiness-for he has refused to his soul its other half-that_divine portion of it without which it is incomplete and useless. Equally true it is, that the more Man elevates Woman the more he himself is raised. Who has softened his barbarity? Who has awoke in him the sentiment of the beautiful; Who has taught him all he knows of honour? Who has made him a hero? Who has shown him the true value and use of life? Who has inspired him with all that he knows of nobility, beauty, and virtue? Let his conscience, his gratitude, his heart, answer-" Woman!"

And as it is to her that he owes all the happiness he knows on earth, so it is she who inspires him with his truest hopes of heaven.

It is Woman who leads Man to God. Her love gives him his first idea of the Beautiful, and it is through the Beautiful that he acquires the sentiment of Infinity and Deity. True, she caused his fall-but it is true also that she works his redemption: she lost him the Eden of Earth, but she leads him to a nobler Paradise in Heaven.

For my own part I care not-but rather rejoice-that she is assumed

to be intellectually inferior to Man. Her moral superiority can never be questioned; and that places her far higher in the scale of Creation than any power she could possess in the shape of intellectual endowment. I would not see her wielding the sword-swaying the sceptre -asserting the law-no; authority never becomes her: let her administer the law of Love, and reign in the world of Beauty and Truth. She is not allowed to be a politician, a legislator, a judge, a divine; no matter-she nurses our children-she introduces them into true life-into heart-life-and therefore her mission is a vast and a holy one; it is to regenerate Humanity by awakening its Soul.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE ODD MAN TELLS A TALE THAT BEARS A MORAL.

Old Age was leading Youth along—
A-weary of the way,-

Although they trod the flowers among,

And though 'twas verdant May;

Youth said" Be glad! the scene is fair,
Look round and happy be!"

But Age's eye was dim with care,

And he answered cheerlessly,

""Twas fair when I, like thee, was young,
When sorrow was unknown;

But Time on all has dimness flung,
And Care its mists has thrown;
The earth delights my eye no more,
But yearnings fill my breast,

I long for some more peaceful shore,
Where I may take my rest.

"Thou'rt young-but Oh! be not deceiv'd,-
Thy prospects now seem fair,-

But thou wilt oft be tried and griev'd,

And aim'd at by Despair;

Oh, think not that the world will be,

-With all its smiles and flowers

A home of joy and peace to thee,
A source of happy hours!

"I'd have thee place thy hopes on One
Who never wounds nor grieves;
Who never scorns the suppliant's tone,
Nor frowns on, nor deceives :
Rely on him, and thou wilt find
A Friend for ever sure;

A refuge for thy weary mind,
A Hope that shall endure!"

Relentless Winter soon came on,
And stopt the old man's breath;
And Youth grew wise when Age was gone
To the cold tomb of Death:
He treasured every word of worth
The old man's lips had given;
And rested not on Man or Earth,

But looked to God and Heaven.