to Platonism) those rapturous reminiscences of past, which prove beyond logical demonstration, the existence of some vital principle in man, godlike in faculties, in essence immaterial, in duration, immortal!  It is Christmas Day, a deep, unearthly calm possesses our minds; all passions are slumbering, save the beautiful and holy ones of adoring love, mingled with overwhelming gratitude towards our maker, and philanthropic love, universal benevolence, to man.  It is winter, but one of those delicious days in which closing our eyes, so that we behold not sad hosts of bare stems and branches, we may well deem that summer reigns!  And a summer indeed reigns in our bosoms!  Now nature seems new and fascinating, as it did to Adam when he wakened into life.  Now, as for the first time, we discern with unspeakable emotions, that divine affection as well as unlimited power, which actuates and supports creation.  Now we comprehend that the universe was designed to minister happiness to myriads of intelligent beings; but that man, by sin, frustrates the gracious intent, and produces misery.  Now the glorious golden sun seems in its gladdening lustre, like a smile from its creator; a smile beaming ineffable love, and joy, and peace.  Now the sky, the pale, delicate, sapphire sky, the soft, tender, inviting, enfolding, and immeasurable sky, appears to image the mercy of its maker.  Let us yet gaze upon the sky, for it also admonishes us of other delightful things; it is silent—­it is awful—­it is holy; but its silence is beautiful, and with wordless eloquence it speaks unto our enraptured bosoms of deep, eternal, unimaginable repose! it infuses into our breasts undefinable ideas and sensations; it appears to our enchanted imaginations an emblem meet of the grand dream of eternity, and our spirits seem on the verge of quitting earth, in thrilling contemplations on the islands of that infinite abyss, and their immortal inhabitants!  We gaze in hope, adoration, and rapture on the blue expanse, varied by delicate vapours, sailing calmly, wondrously through it; and then occur to our memories spontaneously, the exquisite lines translated from a morceau, by Gluck, (a German poet;) and our hearts respond as each of us sighs: 

  “There’s peace and welcome in yon sea
  Of endless blue tranquillity. 
    Those clouds are living things! 
  I trace their veins of liquid gold,
  I see them solemnly unfold
    Their soft and fleecy wings!

  These be the angels that convey
  Us weary children of a day
    Life’s tedious nothing o’er,
  Where neither passions come, nor woes
  To vex the genius of repose
    On death’s majestic shore!”