the organ is large, you have the callipers and craniometer arrayed against you; and it is hard if some organ cannot be found sufficiently large to balance all deficiencies of the others.

In short, it is equally easy to fit the organ to the character, and the character to the organ. If a man has a large organ of imagination, it is not difficult to find that he wrote a few verses in the course of his life, which may claim for him the title of a poet; or he could tell a good story; or was given to building castles in the air, or engaging in wild speculations; or else he had a turn for drawing; or, at least, he sometimes told a lie, when he might as well have held to the truth. There is no difficulty in finding bad qualities to match the organs of those we dislike; or good ones, which shall correspond with the amiable prominences of our friends.

It seems to be almost a waste of time to oppose with gravity, a notion like that of the phrenologists. But, as I have before observed, it has received the sanction of a few respectable names. Persons of this class have sometimes complained, that they were attacked with ridicule rather than with argument; and that the community have only laughed at the doctrine, when they should have studied it. But it would seem that the general merriment excited by phrenology is a strong argument against it; an evidence, in short, that it is opposed to the common sense and common observation of mankind, if it does not prove, that the organs of individuality and comparison are only developed sufficiently in the select few who believe in phrenology.

However ridiculous this doctrine may appear to those who are acquainted with the history of man, there is nothing wonderful in its rise or diffusion; and there will be nothing wonderful in its decline and final repose with similar fanciful conceptions. It will doubtless, ere long, be found only in the same page of history with physiognomy, animal magnetism, and tractoration; and the memory of phrenological societies will rest with that of the Perkinean Institution.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED.

[FROM THE SPANISH OF LUIS PONCE DE LEON.}

Alma region luciente,

Prado de bien andanza, que ni al hielo, &c.

REGION of life and light!

Land of the good whose earthly toils are o'er!

Nor frost nor heat may blight

Thy vernal beauty; fertile shore,

Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore !

There, without crook or sling

Walks the good shepherd; blossoms white and red

Round his meek temples cling;

And, to sweet pastures led,

His own loved flock beneath his eye are fed.

He guides, and near him they

Follow delighted; for he makes them go

Where dwells eternal May,

And heavenly roses blow,

Deathless, and gathered but again to grow.

He leads them to the height

Named of the infinite and long sought Good,
And fountains of delight ;-

And where his feet have stood

Springs up, along the way, their tender food.

And when, in the mid skies

The climbing sun has reached his highest bound,
Reposing as he lies,

With all his flock around,

He witches the still air with modulated sound.

From his sweet lute flow forth

Immortal harmonies of power to still

All passions born of earth,

And draw the ardent will

Its destiny of goodness to fulfill.

Might but a little part,

A wandering breath of that high melody,

Descend into my heart,

And change it, till it be

Transformed and swallowed up, oh love, in thee;

Ah then my soul should know,

Beloved! where thou liest at noon of day,

And from this place of woe

Released, should take its way

To mingle with thy flock, and never stray.

B.

SEA-SIDE MUSINGS.

"T is a fair scene;-the few clouds, dark and dun, That lie like islets in the glorious west,

Are streaked with flame, as the broad setting sun
Sinks slowly to his golden hall of rest;

While his slant rays throw o'er the ocean's breast
Bright threads of silver, and the flashing spray
Seems set with jewels, like the bridal vest
Of proud Sultana. Bright is the array,

When thus, in quiet pomp, goes slowly down the day.

Winds gentle as the watching mother's prayer,
Come o'er the waters, as they sink and swell
With buoyant motion, such as heaves the fair
Breast of the cradled infant, when the spell

Is broke, that locks the thoughts in memory's cell.
Hither the secret worshipper alone

Might come to pray, and here might hermit dwell;

Centuries have wreathed the moss-crown round the stone, And flowers here spring and fade, unnoticed, and unknown.

There is no sign of life within the shore's
Wide circuit, save that now and then his cry
The wheeling curlew on the breeze outpours,
Or far away, where mingle earth and sky,
A small sail, dim in distance, passes by,
Like some proud eagle, on his steady flight
Far through the welkin's clear profundity,

Or like a cloud of filmy, flaky white,

Borne through the moonlight blue,-one lonely speck of light.

Here, as I sit, strange fantasies and dreams,

With hues as vivid as reality,

Flit by. The infinite blue ocean seems

A thing of life. Shrouded in mystery,

Heave thy long billows onward, sounding sea!
And, in thy voice, full many tales are told

Of griefs that in thy secret caverns be,

Of joys that wither in thy circling fold,

Like flowers that wake to life in winter's chill and cold.

And yet thou art a thing of loveliness,
And forms surpassing fair thy waters hide;
The branching coral blends, in sweet caress,
With intertwining sea-plants-far and wide
Gems sparkle to the swaying of the tide ;
Beings, the seaman's dread, thy blue depths throng;
And poets feign, how o'er thy bosom glide
Beautiful sea-nymphs, warbling such sweet song
As wakes the hidden rill, winding its path along.

And fearful thoughts, too, round thee cast their spell;
A voice comes up from thy dark-heaving wave,
Distant and deep, like sound of funeral bell;

A voice which tells, that there have found a grave
Multitudes of earth's children, master, slave,
The grey-haired father, and the blooming boy,
Warriors that wore the laurels of the brave,

And forms of beauty. Ah! could'st thou destroy Her whose fair tresses streamed upon the breath of joy!

Cities have sunk beneath thy victor march,
As when of old, with mutterings deep and low,
Sprung the volcano's mine, and a red arch

Of flame gushed forth, and whelmed beneath its flow
Italia's fairest lands. The keels that plough
Thy breast, masses of strength, oh, what are they,.
When thy waves rage, and like the drifting snow,
Throughout the darkened air is flung thy spray,
And thy dark caverns all lie open to the day.

And yet thou art a picture of man's life,—
Of youth, when sparkling hope keeps festival,
And years flow on like sunlit streams,-man's strife
For fame, of wintry age, when sorrows fall
Like blight in summer on the soul, and all
The founts of joy are choked. As o'er thy face
Blank darkness spreads her melancholy pall,

Thou shadowest forth our end, when life's short race
Is run, and man is laid in his long resting-place.

FANCY.

Ar day's soft close, when village sounds have died
By the green hill, and o'er the hamlet-side,

Ofttimes a strain of fairy music steals

On my rapt ear with low and plaintive peals

E. P.