by whose patronage Antioch College was founded, long ago called themselves Christians,' not invidiously but devoutly, and in honor of the author and finisher of their faith; and they have now selected a name by which to designate their Institution, at once scriptural and commemorative, because the Disciples were called Christians first in Antioch.'

"In some particulars of its aim and scope, this College differs from most of the higher literary institutions of the country. It recognises the claims of the female sex to equal opportunities of education with the male, and these opportunities it designs to confer. Its founders believe that labors and expenditures for the higher education of men will tend indirectly to elevate the character of women; but they are certain that all wise efforts for the improved education of women will speed the elevation of the whole human race.

“It is designed, in this College, not only to give marked attenti n to the study of the Laws of Hu

man Health and Life, but to train up the pupils in a systematic obedience to them."

Opening its halls under the direction of its well known and efficient head, the college sprang at once into a state of prosperity. In the second year of its instruction in 1854, no less than four hundred students were in daily attendance; of these one third were females, who are admitted to equal privileges in all the advantages of the institution. In the list of the Faculty, we notice Miss R. M. Pennell, "Professor of Physical Geography, Drawing, Natural History, Civil History, and Didactics." The Greek and Latin languages are taught, and indeed all the usual branches of an American collegiate education.

Mr. Loring, in his “Hundred Boston Orators,” gives us this sketch of the personal appearance of Mr. Mann. "He is tall, very erect, and remarkably slender, with silvery grey hair, animated and expressive features, light complexion, and rapid pace. As an orator, his smooth, flowing style, musical voice, and graceful manner, with fertility, amplitude, and energy of diction, often adorned with a graceful, rushing eloquence, that can be measured only by the celerity of his movements in the street, irresistibly captivate the breathless audience."

HEALTH AND TEMPERANCE-FROM THOUGHTS FOR A YOUNG MAN,

Were a young man to write down a list of his duties, Health should be among the first items in the catalogue. This is no exaggeration of its value; for health is indispensable to almost every form of human enjoyment; it is the grand auxiliary of usefulness; and should a man love the Lord his God with all his heart and soul and mind and strength, he would have ten times more heart and soul and mind and strength to love Him with, in the vigor of health, than under the palsy of disease. Not only the amount, but the quality of the labor which a man can perform, depends upon his health. The work savors of the workman. If the poet sickens, his verse sickens; if black, venous blood flows to an author's brain, it beclouds his pages; and the devotions of a consumptive man scent of his disease as Lord Byron's obscenities smell of gin. Not only "lying lips," but a dyspeptic stomach, is an abomination to the Lord. At least in this life, so depen. dent is mind upon material organization,-the functions and manifestations of the soul upon the VOL. II.-15

condition of the body it inhabits, that the mate rialist hardly states practical results too strongly, when he affirms that thought and passion, wit, imagination, and love, are only emanations from exquisitely organized matter, just as perfume is the effluence of flowers, or music the ethereal product of an Eolian harp.

In regard to the indulgence of appetite, and the management of the vital organs, society is still in a state of barbarism; and the young man who is true to his highest interests must create a civilization for himself. The brutish part of our nature governs the spiritual. Appetite is Nicholas the First, and the noble faculties of mind and heart are Hungarian captives. Were we to see a rich banker exchanging eagles for coppers by tale, or a rich merchant bartering silk for serge by the pound, we should deem them worthy of any epithet in the vocabulary of folly. Yet the same men buy pains whose prime cost is greater than the amplest fund of natural enjoyments. Their purveyor and market-man bring them home head-aches, and indigestion, and neural

gia, by hamper-fulls. Their butler bottles up stone, and gout, and the liver-complaint, falsely labelling them sherry, or madeira, or port, and the stultified masters have not wit enough to see through the cheat. The mass of society look with envy upon the epicure who, day by day, for four hours of luxurious eating suffers twenty hours of sharp aching; who pays a full price for a hot supper, and is so pleased with the bargain that he throws in a sleepless and tempestuous night as a gratuity. English factory children have received the commiseration of the world, because they were scourged to work eighteen hours out of the twenty-four, but there is many a theoretic republican who is a harsher Pharaoh to his stomach than this;-who allows it no more resting-time than he does his watch; who gives it no Sunday, no holiday, no vacation in any sense. Our pious ancestors enacted a law that suicides should be buried where four roads meet, and that a cart-load of stones should be thrown upon the body. Yet, when gentlemen or ladies commit suicide, not by cord or steel, but by turtle-soup or lobster-salad, they may be buried in consecrated ground, and under the auspices of the church, and the public are not ashamed to read an epitaph upon their tombstones false enough to make the marble blush. Were the barbarous old law now in force that punished the body of the suicide for the offence which his soul had committed, we should find many a Mount Auburn at the crossroads. Is it not humiliating and amazing, that men, invited by the exalted pleasures of the intellect, and the sacred affections of the heart, to come to a banquet worthy of the gods, should stop by the wayside to feed on garbage, or to drink of the Circean that transforms them to swine!

cup

If a young man, incited by selfish principles alone, inquires how he shall make his appetite yield him the largest amount of gratification, the answer is, by Temperance. The true epicurean art consists in the adaptation of our organs not only to the highest, but to the longest enjoyment. Vastly less depends upon the table to which we sit down, than upon the appetite which we carry to it. The palled epicure, who spends five dollars for his dinner, extracts less pleasure from his meal than many a hardy laborer who dines for a shilling. The desideratum is, not greater luxuries, but livelier papille; and if the devotee of appetite would propitiate his divinity aright, he would not send to the Yellow-stone for buffaloes' tongues, nor to France for paté de foie gras, but would climb a mountain, or swing an axe. With health, there is no end to the quantity or the

EMINENT as a theological writer, and for his advocacy of the doctrines of Swedenborg, was born at Norwich, Vermont, June 12, 1796. He was a graduate of Dartmouth, studied at Princeton Theological Seminary, took orders in the Presbyterian Church, and was for several years a missionary in Indiana. In 1831 he became Professor of Hebrew and Oriental Literature in the. University of the city of New York, and at the same period Superintendent of the Press of the American Bible Society. In 1832 he published his Life of Mahommed in Harper's Family Library. In this work copious extracts from the false prophet's revelations are interwoven with his personal memoirs.

Gre. Bush

A Treatise on the Millennium appeared in 1832. The main object of this work was to show by a somewhat elaborate train of historical and critical induction, that the prophetical period technically termed the Millennium was past instead of future; that it was not a prosperous period of the church, but the reverse; and that the expected era to which the name Millennium is given, is really the New Jerusalem era developed in the closing chapters of the Apocalypse. An octavo

volume of Scripture Illustrations published at this time by Dr. Bush, was a compilation from oriental tourists, archæologists, and commentators, with a view to cast light upon the sacred Scriptures in the departments of topography, manners, customs, costumes, arts, learning, usages of speech, &c. In 1835 his Hebrew Grammar for the use of schools, seminaries, and universities, appeared; and in 1840 the first of his series of Notes on the Books of the Old Testament, which have included Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Joshua, and Judges. These were marked as well by the ingenuity and boldness as by the learning of his speculations. He gave further attention to the sacred symbols and prophecy in the Hierophant, a monthly magazine, which he commenced in 1844. It contained a series of articles on Professor Stuart's canons of prophetical interpretation, which attracted considerable notice at the time, as rather unusual specimens of a kind but caustic criticism.

In the same year he published his Anastasis; or the Doctrine of the Resurrection of the Body Rationally and Spiritually Considered, in which he opposed the doctrine of the physical construction of the body in another world, with arguments from reason and revelation. The book met with much opposition from the pulpit and reviewers, and the author replied in his work, The Resurrection of Christ, in answer to the Question whether He rose in a Spiritual and Celestial, or in a Material and Earthly Body, and The Soul, an Inquiry into Scriptural Psychology.

After this Dr. Bush became connected with the Swedenborgian church, as one of its preachers, and devoted himself to the dissemination of the writings of that philosopher, by translation of his Diary and other works, and especially in his editorship of the New Church Repository. In 1847 he published a work on the connexion of the doctrines of Swedenborg and mesmerism. In his personal character Dr. Bush is remarkable for the kindness of his disposition. His love of mysticism harmonizes well with the pursuits of the gentle-minded scholar and ardent devotee of learning.

JOHN G. C. BRAINARD.

BRAINARD, the gentle poet of the Connecticut, the sylvan, placid stream which happily symbolizes his verse, was born in the state of that name at New London, October 21, 1796. His father had been a judge of the Superior Court, and the son for a while, after his education at Yale was completed, pursued the study of the law, but it was little adapted to his tastes and constitution, and after a brief trial of its practice at Middletown he abandoned it in February, 1822, for the editorship of a weekly paper at Hartford, the Connecticut Mirror. He is said to have neglected the politics of his paper, dismissing the tariff with a jest, while he displayed his ability in the literary and poetical department. His genius lay in the amiable walks of the belles-lettres, where the delicacy of his temperament, the correspondence of the sensitive mind to the weak physical frame, found its appropriate home and nourishment. His country needed results of this kind more than it did law or politics; and in his short life Brainard honored his native land. His genius is a flower plucked

from the banks of the river which he loved, and preserved for posterity.

Before entering on the Mirror Brainard wrote a few pieces for a literary paper published by Cornelius Tuthill at New Haven, called The Microscope. His compositions in the Mirror were at once relished and appreciated. Though they were mostly on trite and occasional subjects, such as time out of mind had occupied with little notice the corner of the country newspaper, yet they had a freshness of spirit infused in them, a fine poetical instinct, which charmed the youths and maidens of Connecticut. This instinct of Brainard led him to the employment of the ballad, in which he gave rare promise, as he embodied the patriotism or the super-tition of the country, in such poems as Fort Griswold and the Black For of Salmon River. The annual new year carrier's address of the newspaper, in place of the usual doggerel, became a poem in his hands. Even album verses assumed a hue of nature and originality. He writes

TO THE DAUGHTER OF A FRIEND.

I pray thee by thy mother's face,
And by her look and by her eye,
By every decent matron grace
That hovered round the resting-place

Where thy young head did lie;
And by the voice that soothed thine ear,
The hymn, the smile, the sigh, the tear,
That matched thy changeful mood;
By every prayer thy mother taught,
By every blessing that she sought,

I pray thee to be good.

The humor of Brainard was the natural accompaniment of his sensibility. It is deeply inwrought with his gentle nature.

In 1825 a first volume of Poems was published by Brainard at New York, mostly made up from the columns of his newspaper, which was favorably received. Not long after, in 1827, the poet

was compelled by the inroad of consumption on his constitution to retire from his editor-hip. He went to the east end of Long Island for his health, and has left a touching memorial of his visit to the sea, in which the animation of his genius overcomes the despondency of his broken frame. He suffered and wrote verses till his death at his father's home, at New London, September 26, 1828.

After his death a second edition of Brainard's poems appeared in 1832, enlarged from the first, with the title Literary Remains, accompanied by a warmly written sketch of the poet's life by Whittier. This has been since followed by a third edition, with a portrait, an elegant and tasteful volume, published by Edward Hopkins, at Hartford, in 1842.

To the indications we have given of the poet's genius we have only to add a few personal traits. He was a small man, and sensitive on that score. His friends noticed the fine expression of his countenance when animated. He was negligent of his dress and somewhat abstracted. He wrote rapidly, and was ready in conversation, with playful repartee. His biographer, in the last edition of his poems, gives an instance of his wit. A preacher had come to New London, and labored heavily through a discourse, complaining all the time that his mind was imprisonel. When this difficulty was urged in defence of his dulness Brainard would not allow it, since "the preacher's mind might easily have sworn out." At another time he replied to a critic, who had pronounced the word "brine" in his verses on "The Deep,"

66

to have no more business in sentimental poetry than a pig in a parlor," that the objector, "though his piece is dated Philadelphia, lives at a greater distance from the sea, and has got his ideas of the salt water from his father's pork barrel."

ON CONNECTICUT RIVER.

From that lone lake, the sweetest of the chain
That links the mountain to the mighty main,
Fresh from the rock and swelling by the tree,
Rushing to meet and dare and breast the sea-
Fair, noble, glorious river! in thy wave
The sunniest slopes and sweetest pastures lave;
The mountain torrent, with its wintry roar,
Springs from its home and leaps upon thy shore :-
The promontories love thee-and for this
Turn their rough cheeks and stay thee for thy kiss.
Stern, at thy source, thy northern Guardians stand,
Rude rulers of the sol.tary land,

Wild dwellers by thy cold sequestered springs,
Of earth the feathers and of air the wings;
Their blasts have rocked thy cradle, and in storm
Covered thy couch and swathed in snow thy form-
Yet, blessed by all the elements that sweep
The clouds above, or the unfathomed deep,
The purest breezes scent thy blooming hills,
The gentlest dews drop on thy eddying rills,
By the mossed bank, and by the aged tree,
The silver streamlet smoothest glides to thee.

The young oak greets thee at the water's edge,
Wet by the wave, though anchore 1 in the ledge.
'Tis there the otter dives, the beaver feeds,
Where pensive oziers dip their willowy weeds,
And there the wild cat purs amid her brood,
And trains them, in the sylvan solitude,

*Memoir of Brainard, p. 83.

To watch the squirrel's leap, or mark the mink
Paddling the water by the quiet brink ;-
Or to out-gaze the grey owl in the dark,
Or hear the young fox practising to bark.

Dark as the frost nip'd leaves that strewed the ground,

The Indian hunter here his shelter found;
Here cut his bow and shaped his arrows true,
Here built his wigwam and his bark canoe,
Speared the quick salmon leaping up the fall,
And slew the deer without the rifle ball.
Here his young squaw her cradling tree would
choose,

Singing her chant to hush her swart pappoose,
Here stain her quills and string her trinkets rude,
And weave her warrior's wampum in the wood.
-No more shall they thy welcome waters bless,
No more their forms thy moonlit banks shall press,
No more be heard, from mountain or from grove,
His whoop of slaughter, or her song of love.

Thou didst not shake, thou didst not shrink when late

The mountain-top shut down its ponderous gate,
Tumbling its tree-grown ruins to thy side,
An avalanche of acres at a slide.

Nor dost thou stay, when winter's coldest breath
Howls through the woods and sweeps along the

heath

One mighty sigh relieves thy icy breast
And wakes thee from the calmness of thy rest.

Down sweeps the torrent ice-it may not stay
By rock or bridge, in narrow or in bay-
Swift, swifter to the heaving sea it goes
And leaves thee dimpling in thy sweet repose,
-Yet as the unharmed swallow skims his way,
And lightly drops his pinions in thy spray,
So the swift sail shall seek thy inland seas,
And swell and whiten in thy purer breeze,
New paddles dip thy waters, and strange oars
Feather thy waves and touch thy noble shores,

Thy noble shores! where the tall steeple shines, At midday, higher than thy mountain pines, Where the white schoolhouse with its daily drill Of sunburnt children, smiles upon the hill, Where the neat village grows upon the eye Decked forth in nature's sweet simplicity-Where hard-won competence, the farmer's wealth, Gains merit, honor, and gives labor health, Where Goldsmith's self might send his exiled band To find a new "Sweet Auburn" in our land.

What Art can execute or Taste devise,
Decks thy fair course and gladdens in thine eyes-
As broader sweep the bendings of thy stream,
To meet the southern Sun's more constant beam.
Here cities rise, and sea-washed commerce hails
Thy shores and winds with all her flapping sails,
From Tropic isles, or from the torrid main
Where grows the grape, or sprouts the sugar-cane-
Or from the haunts, where the striped haddock play,
By each cold northern bank and frozen bay.
Here safe returned from every stormy sea,
Waves the striped flag, the mantle of the free,
-That star-lit flag, by all the breezes curled
Of yon vast deep whose waters grasp the world.

In what Arcadian, what Utopian ground
Are warmer hearts or manlier feelings found,
More hospitable welcome, or more zeal
To make the curious "tarrying" stranger feel
That, next to home, here best may he abide,
To rest and cheer him by the chimney-side;
Drink the hale Farmer's cider, as he hears
From the grey dame the tales of other years.

Cracking his shagbarks, as the aged crone,
Mixing the true and doubtful into one,
Tells how the Indian scalped the helpless child
And bore its shrieking mother to the wild,
Butchered the father hastening to his home,
Seeking his cottage-finding but his tomb.
How drums and flags and troops were seen on high,
Wheeling and charging in the northern sky,
And that she knew what these wild tokens meant,
When to the Old French War her husband went.
How, by the thunder-blasted tree, was hid
The golden spoils of far famed Robert Kidd;
And then the chubby grand-child wants to know
About the ghosts and witches long ago,
That haunted the old swamp.

The clock strikes ten-
The prayer is said, nor unforgotten then
The stranger in their gates. A decent rule
Of Elders in thy puritanic school.

When the fresh morning wakes him from his
dream,

And daylight smiles on rock, and slope, and stream,
Are there not glossy curls and sunny eyes,
As brightly lit and bluer than thy skies,
Voices as gentle as an echoed call,

And sweeter than the softened waterfall
That smiles and dimples in its whispering spray,
Leaping in sportive innocence away:-
And lovely forms, as graceful and as gay
As wild-brier, budding in an April day;
-How like the leaves-the fragrant leaves it bears,
Their sinless purposes and simple cares.

Stream of my sleeping Fathers! when the sound
Of coming war echoed thy hills around,
How did thy sons start forth from every glade,
Snatching the musket where they left the spade.
How did their mothers urge them to the fight,
Their sisters tell them to defend the right,-
How bravely did they stand, how nobiy fall,
The earth their coffin and the turf their pall.
How did the aged pastor light his eye,
When to his flock he read the purpose high
And stern resolve, whate'er the toil may be,
To pledge life, name, fame, all-for Liberty.
-Cold is the hand that penned that glorious page—
Still in the grave the body of that sage
Whose lip of eloquence and heart of zeal,
Made Patriots act and listening Statesmen feel—
Brought thy Green Mountains down upon their foes,
And thy white summits melted of their snows,
While every vale to which his voice could come,
Rang with the fife and echoed to the drum.

Bold River! better suited are thy waves
To nurse the laurels clustering round their graves,
Than many a distant stream, that soaks the mud,
Where thy brave sons have shed their gallant blood,
And felt, beyond all other mortal pain,
They ne'er should see their happy home again.

Thou had'st a poet once,--and he could tell,
Most tunefully, whate'er to thee befell,
Could fill each pastoral reed upon thy shore-
-But we shall hear his classic lays no more
He loved thee, but he took his aged way,
By Erie's shore, and Perry's glorious day,
To where Detroit looks out amidst the wood,
Remote beside the dreary solitude.

Yet for his brow thy ivy leaf shall spread,
Thy freshest myrtle lift its berried head,
And our gnarled Charter oak put forth a bough,
Whose leaves shall grace thy TRUMBULL'S honored
brow

SALMON EIVER

Hic viridis tenera prætexit arundine ripus
Mincius.-VIRGIL.

Tis a sweet stream-and so, 'tis true, are all
That undisturbed, save by the harmless brawl
Of mimic rapid or slight waterfall,

Pursue their way

By mossy bank, and darkly waving wood,
By rock, that since the deluge fixed has stood,
Showing to sun and moon their crisping flood
By night and day.

But yet there's something in its humble rank,
Something in its pure wave and sloping bank,
Where the deer sported, and the young fawn drank
With unscared look:

There's much in its wild history, that teems
With all that's superstitious--and that seems
To match our fancy and eke out our dreams,
In that small brook.

Havoc has been upon its peaceful plain,

And blood has dropped there, like the drops of rain;
The corn grows o'er the still graves of the slain-
And many a quiver,

Filled from the reeds that grew on yonder hill,
Has spent itself in carnage.
Now 'tis still,

And whistling ploughboys oft their runlets fill
From Salmon River.

Here, say old men, the Indian Magi made
Their spells by moonlight; or beneath the shade
That shrouds sequestered rock, or darkening glade,
Or tangled dell.

Here Philip came, and Miantonimo,

And asked about their fortunes long ago,

As Saul to Endor, that her witch might show
Old Samuel.

And here the black fox roved, and howled, and shook
His thick tail to the hunters, by the brook
Where they pursued their game, and him mistook

For earthly fox;

Thinking to shoot him like a shaggy bea.,
And his soft peltry, stript and dressed to wear,
Or lay a trap, and from his quiet lair

Transfer him to a box.

O'er many a fence, through many a wood,
Following the dog's bewildered scent,
In anxious haste and earnest mood,

The Indian and the white man went.
The gun is cocked, the bow is bent,
The dog stands with uplifted paw,
And ball and arrow swift are sent,

Aimed at the prowler's very jaw.
-The ball, to kill that fox, is run

Not in a mould by mortals made!
The arrow which that fox should shun,
Was never shaped from earthly reed!
The Indian Druids of the wood

Know where the fatal arrows grow-
They spring not by the summer flood,
They pierce not through the winter snow!
Why cowers the dog, whose snuffing nose
Was never once deceived till now?
And why, amid the chilling snows,
Does either hunter wipe his brow?
For once they see his fearful den,

'Tis a dark cloud that slowly moves By night around the homes of men, By day-along the stream it loves. Again the dog is on his track,

The hunters chase o'er dale and hill, They may not, though they would, look back, They must go forward-forward still. Onward they go, and never turn,

Spending a night that meets no day; For them shall never morning sun

Light them upon their endless way.
The hut is desolate, and there

The famished dog alone returns;
On the cold steps he makes his lair,
By the shut door he lays his bones.
Now the tired sportsman leans his gun
Against the ruins of the site,
And ponders on the hunting done

By the lost wanderers of the night.
And there the little country girls

Will stop to whisper, and listen, and look, And tell, while dressing their sunny curls, Of the Black Fox of Salmon Brook.

THE SEA BIRD'S SONG.

On the deep is the mariner's danger,
On the deep is the mariner's death,
Who to fear of the tempest a stranger
Sees the last bubble burst of his breath?
"Tis the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird,
Lone looker on despair,
The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird,
The only witness there.

Who watches their course, who so mildly
Careen to the kiss of the breeze?
Who lists to their shrieks, who so wildly
Are clasped in the arms of the seas?
"Tis the sea-bird, &c.

Who hovers on high o'er the lover,
And her who has clung to his neck?
Whose wing is the wing that can cover,
With its shadow, the foundering wreck?
"Tis the sea-bird, &c.

My eye in the light of the billow,

My wing on the wake of the wave;

I shall take to my breast for a pillow,
The shroud of the fair and the brave.
I'm a sea-bird, &c.