mons for five pounds paid on its receipt, and five more when 1,300 copies were sold, and the same amount after the sale of the second and third editions respectively, each edition comprising 1,500 copies. Milton died before the third edition was demanded, and Simmons purchased his widow's entire right in this immortal property of genius for eight pounds-a property which has brought myriads to publishers for its mere mechanical work, and to artists for its embellishment. Milton's contract with his publisher has been for some time in the possession of Rogers the poet, who, as is stated in our literary record for the month, lately deposited it in the British Museum. The following is a fac-simile of one of the poet's receipts to Simmons : : His remains are beneath, under a large pew. The North British Review says:-"The retrospect of Milton's literary life gives us the following as the facts most proper to be remembered by those who would study his works in their biographical connection; that from his seventeenth to his thirty-third or thirty-fourth year, his chief literary exercises were poetry; that from his thirty-fourth year, however, on to his fifty-third, he labored almost exclusively as a controversialist and prose writer, producing during this long period scarcely anything in verse besides a few sonnets; and, finally, that in his old age he renewed his allegiance to the muse of verse, and occupied himself in the compo sition of those greater poems, the Paradise Lost, the Paradise Regained, and the Samson Agonistes, which he intended more especially as his bequest to the literature of England." App al 26 1669 thon of Samurl Semmms fire spounds bemy the Second Five pounds inentioned in the Cordrant & fay mid by me Witness Conn's Joher millora danghters; then takes exercise. Milton married his third wife in 1660. She survived him several years. Three daughters by his first wife also survived him. The manner in which he conducted their education has occasioned much animadversion, and been considered a proof of his depreciatory estimate of the sex. It is said he taught them to pronounce several languages, that they might read to him, after his blindness; but their instruction was limited to the mere pronunciation. A most ungracious task must have been these filial prelections in unknown tongues; and they may account, in part, for the "undutiful and unkind” treatment which he says he received from them in his latter days. None of them lived with him for several years before his death. He died in great tranquillity on the 8th of November, 1674, and was buried in St. Giles's church, Cripplegate, London, where sleep Fox, the martyrologist, and Speed, the historian. Milton's bust has been placed on the third pillar from the east end, to the left as you enter the church. His daily life has been given us. "He rises early; has a chapter in the Hebrew Bible read to him; then meditates till seven; till twelve he listens to reading, in which he employs his and sometimes swings in his little garden. After a frugal dinner, he enjoys some musical recreation; at six he welcomes friends; takes supper at eight; and then, having smoked a pipe, and drank a glass of water, he retires to repose. That repose is sometimes broken by poetic musings, and he rouses up his daughter that he may dictate to her some lines before they are lost." Among the chief characteristics of Milton's genius are his originality, his sublimity, and his skill in picturesque description. The first of these is the highest trait of genius. It is stamped on all his productions. His poems, especially his great epic, are full of invention. Spenser, he acknowledged to Dryden, was his model; there are distinct traces of our other great early poet in his writings, and the influence of the Greek tragedians and the Italian poets, over his muse, is quite perceptible; but his original and mighty genius transmuted and assimilated to itself all extraneous aids-as the oak, though towering to the heavens, derives, in part, its nourishment from the undergrowth that decays beneath it. It recoined with its own impress every borrowed conception. As originality is the highest power of genius, so is sublimity its highest emotion. Milton is matchless in the latter, if we except the Biblical examples. The two first books of Paradise Lost are, with this exception, the most august displays of the human mind on record. There was, in fact, an essential grandeur in the spirit of this blind old man; even when he treats of pathetic subjects, as in Lycidas, or indulges in familiar description, as in L'Allegro, or introduces colloquial scenes, as in Comus or Paradise Lost, it is always with a dignity which, without being strained, seems nevertheless unearthly-as a fine night-scene appears solemn, something apart from our ordinary earthly life. The sublime individuality of his genius, in fine, pervades all his conceptions, and becomes dignity at least, where it can no longer be grandeur. In this manner must we account for the alleged "want of human interest" in Paradise Lost, and his comparative failure in dramatic effect. His Comus, Arcades, and Samson Agonistes are examples. Fortunately he did not persist in his original intention of producing Paradise Lost in dramatic form. His picturesque skill is so obvious that it is astonishing it should ever have been questioned, especially by so sagacious a critic as Coleridge. L'Allegro and Il Penseroso present the finest pictures. Paradise Lost abounds in transcendent descriptive beauties. When we add to these highest traits of poetic genius the noble morale of the man, the lofty purity of his writings and his life, we are compelled to recognize Milton as not only the greatest of our bards, but one of the grandest men of his own or of any age. He had his imperfections, but his virtues partook of the grandeur of his genius. His life was temperate and unstained. He stood forth for liberty, religious, civil, and literary, with heroic devotion; and would probably have suffered as a martyr for it, had it not been for the intervention of his literary friends. He anticipated some of its latest and noblest developments. Amidst terrible reverses, domestic afflictions, sickness, blindness, and political disgrace, his mighty soul maintained unabated its inherent strength and sublime aspirations; and when the present was lost to him, he appealed to the future in strains which archangels might trumpet in the heavens. THE THE JEWS' WAILING-PLACE AT JERUSALEM. HE above plate represents a memorable locality in the topography of Jerusalem -interesting not only for the affecting ceremony of which it is every week the scene, but for the historical supposition that the massive wall is a remnant of the temple of Solomon. Dr. Robinson describes it as follows: "I went with Mr. Lanneau to the place where the Jews are permitted to purchase the right of approaching the site of their temple, and of praying and wailing over its ruins and the downfall of their nation. The spot is on the western exterior of the area of the great mosque, considerably south of the middle; and is approached only by a narrow crooked lane, which there terminates at the wall in a very small open place. The lower part of the wall is here composed of the same kind of ancient stones, which we had before seen on the eastern side. Two old men, Jews, sat there upon the ground, reading together in a book of Hebrew prayers. On Fridays they assemble here in greater numbers. It is the nearest point in which they can venture to approach their ancient temple; and fortunately for them, it is sheltered from observation by the narrowness of the lane and the dead walls around. Here, bowed in the dust, they may at least weep undisturbed over the fallen glory of their race, and bedew with their tears the soil which so many thousands of their forefathers once moistened with their blood." The following is the lament which the Jews chant amidst these ruins. It must have a singularly affecting sound when heard from the children of Israel, bewailing among the ruins of Jerusalem their fallen city and their suffering people. The translation is by Rev. Mr. Wolff. Cantor. On account of the palace which is laid waste : People. We sit down alone and weep. Cantor. On account of the temple which is destroyed: People. We sit down alone and weep. Cantor. On account of the walls which are pulled down: People. We sit down alone and weep. Cantor. On account of the majesty which is gone: People. We sit down alone and weep. Cantor. On account of our great men who have been cast down: People. We sit down alone and weep. stones which were burned: People. We sit down alone and weep. Cantor. On account of the priests who have stumbled: People. We sit down alone and weep. Cantor. On account of our kings who have despised Him: People. We sit down alone and weep. Cantor. We beseech Thee, have mercy upon Sion: People. Gather the children of Jerusalem. Cantor. Make haste, Redeemer of Sion: People. Speak to the heart of Jerusalem. Cantor. May beauty and majesty surround Sion: People. And turn with thy mercy to Jerusalem. Cantor. Remember the shame of Sion: People. Make new again the ruins of Jerusalem. Cantor. May the royal government shine again over Sion: People. Comfort those who mourn at Jerusalem. Cantor. May joy and gladness be found upon Sion: People. A Branch spring forth at Jerusalem. A CHILD IN HEAVEN. And dost by Love's attraction draw our souls, And though we bear the weight Of mortal nature, yet the loved and free We follow with strong pinion back to thee, Lost one! in sleep we rise "Be comforted," that mild, Full heart-glance said—“ of human love the link Then with her brow still bent As if to show she bore our mortal kiss Nor was our gaze forbid To watch her still; for kneeling angels crown'd, Having kiss'd her, parted where they zoned her round, That she might not be hid. As after doubtful notes, That Music wakes ere she decides her lay, And each awaiting heart Thrills to remember'd joy; so, from the grace And glory mantling those bright hosts, did start Full many a well-known face. Thy father's father, sweet! She at whose knees thy mother lisp'd her prayer, Bent their swift pinions from the throne to greet Thy soul, and lead thee there. And some who left the way Of life while green, were there-to whom 'twas given To sink on its soft pastures after play, And one not knit by blood- Close, closer, form divine! Here was thy life, high, gracious, undefiledThe light that lit the parent-hearts was thineNow shine upon the child! They stoop to us, they pour Celestial glances down, each glance a ray That steeps our eyes-the dropp'd lids fringe them o'er, And all dissolves away! Yet through the dark we hear The music of their wings-and well we know O, then our thankful bliss Burst forth-and the bless'd souls that people dreams Fled from the awakening cry. Our world was this, Our light, earth's common beams. They slant upon the ground Where, in its bud, her wind-snapp'd dahlia lay, Where still the notes of childhood's chorus sound, Though one note is away. Morn breaks its golden surge Against the walls whence with presaging eyes She watch'd the spire-crown'd steep: morn rounds the verge Of shadow where she lies. The night-hush'd din of life Thickens and swells; but from that better sphere Our sleep unvail'd, there flows through all the strife A voice intact and clear, "Love's very grief is gain; Thereby earth holier grows, and heaven is nigher; Potent is sorrow's breath To quench wrath's fever; and the hungry will That clutches fame, looks in the face of death, And the wild mien is still. No paths of sense may wile The yearning heart. It asks not if the road BENE PHILOSOPHIC SCHOOLS OF GREECE. THE PHILOSOPHER AND HIS DISCIPLES. ENEATH the cloudless canopy of a Grecian sky, and within the noble edifices of Athens, metaphysical pursuits found their most ardent admirers. Here Thales, who has been styled "the father of speculative philosophy," taught his doctrines, though the events of his life, no less than the precise tenets he maintained, are shrouded in mystery. His aphorism, "Know thyself," which was considered worthy to be inscribed in letters of gold on the temple at Delphi, develops the method by which he sought the extension of truth. The first distinctive characteristic of the Ionian school, founded by Thales, was that of physiological inquiry into the constitution of the universe. He taught that the principle of all things was water. Anaximenes followed; but while he elaborated the views of his master, he detected phenomena that were to him inexplicable on the principle of Thales. He felt within him a something which moved him, though he knew neither how, nor whysomething higher than himself-invisible, but ever present: this he called his soul. His soul he believed to be air. These great, though mistaken philosophers, were followed in the same course of thought by Diogenes of Apollonia, and Heraclitus of Ephesus, who sought to refer all sensible things to one original principle in nature. Air and fire appeared to them only sensible symbols, which they used in order to present inore vividly to the imagination the energy of the one vital principle, which gives rise to all outward appearances. It would, however, be a mistake to regard these philosophers as materialists. The distinction between objective and subjective,-between a law operating in the universe, and the corresponding apprehension of that law by reason,-however obvious it may seem at the present day, appears to have required the deep meditation of numerous powerful thinkers to bring it clearly and truthfully before the mind. That these two great things were confounded by Heraclitus is apparent; for he attributed to the universal fire the powers of a universal reason, the source both of order in the world, and of the insight into that order possessed by man. Notwithstanding this confusion, the important discovery was recognized by him, that reason is common to all men, and that the ultimate principles of science derive their validity from their universality. These philosophers may be regarded as forming one division of the Ionic school, who agreed in believing the universe to be the result of the spontaneous evolution of a single principle or power, and all sensible things as modifications of that principle, real only in reference to their ultimate ground. Anaximander, who lived B. C. 590, and Anaxagoras, the master of Peri |